Memory
I untie her hair, dive my hands into her lovely locks
and my laughter echoes over mountains, valleys,
ravines and peaks full of eternal snow. Her pleading
eyes break my heart: I must uproot trees again, must
let the water flow freely in the ditch. The beautiful
dark-skinned girls must come and spray their breasts
with the water of the rosy fountain. Must, must, must …
I crush the rose of joy between my kind hands. I open
the birdcage so the birds fly away, freely, at night.
An angel pops up from the sink. I welcome him,
I offer him stamps, figs, lion skins, and kisses. I stand
by the front step of the villa. I always search the horizon
and leaning down, I try to clean the glass of the lens
with my fingers, so the moon may come and rest on it.
Suddenly the voice:
“Nikos Engonopoulos, you shouldn’t have done this”
We all sit and cry around the table with the red cover
until one fruit bowl with wrinkled fruits reminds us
the futility of human expectations, and of hope too.
Libros Libertad 