Calm Down
He took his walking stick. He stopped ambivalently.
He looked at the road. Should he strike the rock?
Should he ask the neighbour? In any case, he surely
feels the stick in his hand. A tree is opposite him, and
the cloud at the turn of the road; he may choose, he
has time to spare. The dead moisten their fingers
in the underground springs. If one delays in the above
stoa, the others don’t worry. No one worries. They have
already lit the lamp. The place fell on the floor.
The napkin is in the wooden ring since the dead aren’t
afraid of time. In their shoes, sleep the blind and the
made of clay dolls, and their sticks are scarecrows
of bad theatre actors.
Manolis Aligizakis 