Every evening with the thyme scorched on
the rock’s bosom
there’s a water-drop that for a long time has been digging
silence to its marrow
there is a bell hanging from the ancient plane-tree
calling out the years
Sparks sleep lightly in the embers of solitude
and roofs contemplate on the golden fine down
on the upper lip of Alonaris 1
– yellow fine down like the corn tassel smoked up
by the grief of the west
Virgin Mary leans down on the myrtle her wide
skirt stained by grapes
On the road a child cries and the ewe who lost her
lambs answers from the meadow
Shadow by the spring The barrel frozen
The blacksmith’s daughter with soaked feet
On the table the bread and the olive
in the grapevine the night lamp of evening star…
1 Month of Wheat Harvest – June
Manolis Aligizakis 