WASTED YEARS I wish the years I lived not loving you could be restored to me, years unrecalled as if unknown, the years I lived without you. River that flowed over rocks, river that never moistened grass, water that the earth sucked into its dark depths where each trace vanished. I wish I could relive the wasted years to love you ceaselessly with no end to bestow on you my first love endlessly from birth till my last breath. I’ve graced you with half of my life, and wish I had innumerable lives to give you, to love you as I should, to repossess my wasted years and you.
Assistance The wind converses in front of the windows like those who are going to separate The furniture becomes like the poor girls gathering fallen olives The evening walks under the olive trees all alone and the field with harvested wheat is a denial The shed husk of the cicada resembles a small bell-tower fallen on dry grass The drizzle comes later – it hunts the sparrows slowly the moon lies down under the cypresses like the abandoned plow The plowman sleeps beneath the soil – his wife alone with the dog and the thin ox The hands of silence are frozen as she ties her black headscarf under her chin But the trace of his hand stays on the wood of the plow more strong than his hand and the chair’s back keeps the warmth of his broad shoulder blades About these insignificant things – I don’t know – I want to write a small song that will show I don’t know anything about all these only that they are as they are alone completely alone and they don’t ask for any mediation between themselves and someone else
“Get out of my sight,” Finn yelled with more passion. “Get out of my sight till Caitlin comes back. And if she doesn’t come back, or if I find out that you’ve harmed her in any way, you’d better stay out of my sight. Otherwise I’ll kill you.” Michael rose from the table without a word and left the house. He walked like one in a trance as far as the barn, then he leaned against the wall and wept. The tears brought some relief to his tortured mind, but as he climbed the rest of the way to the cottage his fear grew again like a nauseating vision of eternity. Remorse tightened its suffocating lock on his throat. He wished he could die. Michael opened the door of the cottage and stepped inside. For a heart-lifting second of hope he expected Caitlin to be there, waiting for him by the fireside. But the cottage was empty and cold. In deep despair he was about to flee, about to rush down the hill again and give himself up to the law in Lisnaglass. But fear of the consequences stopped him. Anguished and frightened he lay on the straw-filled tick on his bed and suffered the cruel torture of the demons in his mind. That which hurt most was Finn’s banishment. To be cast out by such a man was a more atrocious punishment than death. What a strange revenge of fate, Michael thought, remembering the bleak November day when he drove his own father to the railway station and told him not to return. He had used almost the same words as Finn had: “If you come back, I’ll kill you.” His father had not come back. He did not even look back as he walked away from the horse and trap on which his youngest son had driven him to the town. He carried only a canvas bag containing all that his profligate life had left to him. That canvas bag was the last tangible remains of his father that Michael ever saw, for it somehow caught on the door of the train as his father went aboard and fell on to the platform. The stationmaster picked it up and handed it into the compartment. That memory had returned to Michael frequently during the past ten or eleven years. He often wondered where the bag was and whether his father still owned it. Strange to recall the bag more than the huge, round, florid-faced man who owned it. Stranger yet when the man was as memorable as Thomas Carrick: memorable for his flaming yellow hair and a face that glowed bright red as if burnt by the fiery aureole of his hair; memorable for the mountainous bulk of his body and for the inexhaustible energy with which he drove it to excesses of work, to excesses of drinking, to excesses of lust, to excesses of cruelty.
Ibrahim comes and leads him away as Emily is busy talking to Mara and three other women. “Come with me, son. I’d like you to meet a couple of important people.” “Gentlemen, this is my son, Talal, from the United States,” he addresses a group of men standing together in a small circle. “Talal, this is the Minister of Finance whom you met before, Omar Salem, the Minister of Transportation and Tourism, Khaled Al Marsi, and the Minister of Natural Resources, Omar Bin Housein.” They all shake hands with Talal and exchange the customary greetings. “He’s a chemist,” the Minister of Finance says to the other two, referring to Talal. “Now, here is one person I would like to have working for me,” Omar Bin Housein says. “We’d all like to have the generation of educated people with us now at this time when our country needs them the most. You are the people who will take charge of our future. I welcome you back to Iraq anytime, young Talal,” the Minister of Transportation and Tourism says. Ibrahim tells them all, that although Talal is coming back soon, he needs him as well, so they had better not become too aggressive in recruiting him for their ministries. “But, of course. After all, this is one of your orphans, isn’t he, Ibrahim?” Omar Salem asks. “Yes, he’s one of my seven sons.” “When I’m back, I’m sure there will be plenty of work to be done, and gentlemen, I’m not about to disappoint any of you,” Talal says with a light laugh.He notices Emily is trying to get his attention, so he excuses himself and goes to her. Omar Bin Houseing bows slightly to his host. “My dear Ibrahim, your Talal is a very fine young man. You must be very proud of him.” “I’m proud of all my orphans, my friends. Yet, the one I’m most proud of is my beloved Hakim, whom you’ll meet soon.” “I hope he comes very soon, Ibrahim,” the Minister of Finance says. “Yes, he will.” Ibrahim is assertive in his tone. Emily is on the far side of the big room enjoying the attention she gets from Mara, who introduced her to her closest friends. At one point, Mara tells Emily, “You’re my invited guest, my dear, and it’s my privilege to present you to my friends and other visitors; after all, you may be here for a longer period the next time and these women, whom you have met today, will also consider you a friend when you return.” “I just hope I haven’t taken you out of your way, Mara.”
Manolis Aligizakis 