The King of Asini
And the lingering poet, looks at the stones and
wonders
do they really exist
between these erased lines, the edges, the hollows
the contours
do they really exist
here where the rain’s passing meets with the wind
and ravage
they do exist, the movement of life, the shape of tenderness
of those who faded out so strangely in our lives
of those who remained as shadows of waves and thoughts
in the endlessness of pelagos
or perhaps no, nothing remains but the weight
the nostalgia of the weight of an alive existence
there where we remain unsubstantial bending
like branches of the terrible willow tree piled in
the continued despair
while the yellow current slowly carries down rushes
uprooted in the mud
image of a form turned into stone by the sentence
of an everlasting bitterness.
The poet a void.
The sun carrying a shield rose fighting
and from depths of the cave a startled bat
pierced the light like an arrow pierces a shield:
‘Ασίνην τε Ασίνην τε…’ As though it was him
the king of Asini
who we have so carefully searched for on this
acropolis
sometimes touching with our fingers his touch
on the stones.
Manolis Aligizakis 