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

           the house

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



revenge, resolve

silence and love

and life in our eyes

wild cats

never caressed

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.