Here we have forgotten many things;
there isn’t any window to gaze at the sea
it’s different to look at the sea through a window
and different from behind the barbwire.
Where is the voice of a child in the afternoon,
where is a woman at the front step of the house, where is
and the closet with the winter cloths
the silence that falls from the wall clock onto the chairs
and the shadow of a kind hand that puts a flower in a vase?
Where are they?
And the gramophone on the cracked window seal
each Saturday evening,
the cat that sauntered on the roof of the house
on the other side of the road
in a dusk full of naphtha
that black neighbourhood cat, tired
and with two drops of loneliness oil in her eyes
tired black cat on the roof of the opposite house
which strangely sauntered quietly in the sundown
scratching the white moon with her tail?
We have forgotten them.
Here it gets very cold at night
loneliness is very hard under the fear
and there is a lot of comradeship under the fear
when death rolls the dice over the guardhouses
with the guards sitting cross legged on the soil.
Here the cats are different:
wild, patient, silent,
they don’t rub their cheek on our elbow
they stand on our knees and study
silence and love
and life in our eyes
silent cats of Makronisos
and this August moon hanging over us
is the great word we never said
frozen on the tongue of the night.