THE DEAD HOUSE
Who has kept all these for us, then, with such
exactness and such applications, washed, pleasant,
cleaned up and tidied, scratched by wounds and
death? And the red river all around the house
nothing, crystal clear water from the day before
yesterday rain, warmish rain reflecting the reddish
sundown until late in the evening, to the hour when
that diaphaneity is spread, immense, glassy, and
you see the indestructible, the invisible in that
immenseness, indestructible and invisible as
you are too surrounded by the whispers of
the furniture and the stars. Mother sits in her
engraved chair and embroiders her endless handiwork
under the light of the oil lamp with the shivering flame
as a light current is coming through the two windows
and father has been away hunting since morning and
the melancholy sound of the hunter’s horn reaches
his ears along with the friendly barking
of the impatient dogs…
Manolis Aligizakis 