2
They
say the mountains tremble and the pines rage
when
night bites off the pins of the roof tiles so the kalikantzari
can
get in
when
the underworld sucks in the frothing scum of the torrents
or
when the hairline on the pepper tree is hammered by the north wind
Only,
the bullocks of the Achaians in the lush meadows of Thessaly
pasture
lustily, with the incessant sun glaring down
eat
green grass poplar leaves wild celery, drink clear water
from
the channels
smell
of the sweat of the earth and afterwards fall deep asleep
in
the shade of the willows.
throw
out your dead, said Heraclitus and he saw the sky turn pale
he
saw in the mud two small cyclamen kissing
and
he fell down to kiss his own dead body in the welcoming earth
just
as the wolf comes down out of the oaks to see the dead dog
and
to howl
What
does it matter, the drop that shines on your forehead?
I
know the thunder wrote its name on your lips
I
know an eagle built its eyrie in your eyes
but
here on this marshy bank there is one road only
only
one treacherous road and you must cross it
you
must soak in blood before time catches up with you
and
you must cross to the other side to see your companions again
flowers
birds deer
to
find another sea another kindness
to
grasp Achilles' horses by their reins
instead
of sitting mutely blaming the river
like
Kitsos' mother when she stoned the river
because
you will have become lost and your beauty grown old.
In
the branches of a willow I see drying a shirt you wore as a child
take
the flag of life to shroud death
let
your heart not give way
let
not your tear be lost on the unyielding earth
as
the tear of the penguin was lost in the icy wastes
Lamentation
is worthless
Life
everywhere will be the same with the flute of snakes in the land
of
phantoms
with
the song of thieves in the spice trees
with
the knife of desire in the face of hope
with
the sadness of spring in the leafy heart of an owl
It
is enough if a plow is found, a keen sickle in a cheerful hand
it
is enough if a only little wheat ripens
a
little wheat for the holiday a little wine for remembrance a little
water
for
the dust . . .
3.
In
the yard of the embittered the sun does not rise
only
worms come up to taunt
the
stars
only
horses
sprout on ant hills
and
the bats eat birds and piss seed
In
the yard of the embittered the night does not fade
only
the leaves throw up a river of tears
when
the devil slips in to ride the dogs
and
the black birds swim in a well of blood
In
the yard of the embittered the eye has run dry
the
brain has frozen and the heart has turned to stone
the
flesh of frogs hangs in the spider's teeth
the
unfed locusts scream at the vampire's feed
In
the yard of the embittered the grass grows dark
only
one evening in May a wind breaks in
a
light step like the skipping of the field
a
kiss from the white crests of the sea.
If
you are thirsty for water we will wring out a cloud
and
if you are hungry for bread we will butcher a nightingale
only
the bitter herb waits a moment to open
the
dark sky to lighten the mullein to flower
Yet
it was a wind that fled a lark that was lost
it
was the face of May the pale face of the moon
a
light step like skipping in a the field
a
kiss from the white crests of the sea.
Trans, DGW.
For the complete Amorgos with the Greek: http://www.nauplion.net/Gatsos-AMORGOS.pdf
