4th of November
Many things bother us. Too many.
We have to wash our plates, our clothes,
to carry, in large pitchers, water from the spring
to sweep the ward two or three times a day
to mend our socks and our words
yesterday’s words pierce you fast
faces change as you look at them
perhaps you might change too, since you look at
your hands, you understand they got familiar with
these chores, these days, these bed-sheets,
they know the planks of the table and the lamp
they make the same gesture with certainty,
they don’t get startled. The fire needs rekindling,
it’s almost out — this is what we consider.
At noon five old men called me;
they boiled a coffee for me and gave me a cigarette
they said it was St. Dionysus’ Day; the saint
who expelled the bad shepherds.
Five old men with soft eyes, white moustaches
who, day and night, make cigarette cases,
picture frames by gluing short pieces of hay, small like
pin heads; they colour them — troublesome things;
some flowerpots with geraniums, with Greek flags,
one for the sea and one for the land, some five pointed stars
they wanted to create a dove too; they didn’t manage;
good old men. I didn’t listen to
the details, but I thought of this: they called me
son, I couldn’t call any of them father.
Master Thanassis wants to make me a stool:
“so you don’t sit on the dirt, my son, and you mess up
your pants.”
Now I contemplate how many things I have
to create, for how long I’ll be dirtying my pants
so master Thanassis will be concerned that I sit
on the soil
so I might end up calling him father.
Only then might I be worthy of having his stool
as if climbing on the plane-trees on St. Dionysus day
and I’ll shake all heavy things off my shoulders
as I push away this little spider that saunters
on my hand, and I believe I won’t even feel cold
in the winter.
Libros Libertad 