The Dead House
And if someone happened to saunter on the opposite
hill with the thorns when the sun goes down and
everything is pale, vague and violet when they all
seem to be lost and at the same time approachable,
that lonely passerby who saunters on the hill looks
calm and likable like one who could feel sympathetic
towards us, even the hill looks serene at the
same height as our window, so much so that if one
turns this way to look at the cypresses, it seems
that in more steps he could pass by our terrace,
enter our room like an old familiar friend, and,
I think he could also ask for a brush to dust off
his shoes. Yet the man vanishes behind the hill
and the contour of the mountain remains opposite
our window like silent forgiveness, along with
the sad, calm sunset that fades amid the shadows.
And don’t think that we have adapted
but what are you doing? Everyone has
deserted us; we have deserted everyone too.
We’ve established an almost just balance without
reciprocal enmity, regret, and sadness of course,
how else could it be?
Manolis Aligizakis 