Μαξιλαροπόλεμος

Μα τα όνειρα δε θα χαθούν
Θα παραμείνουν, όπως το άρωμα
Από θυμάρι και ποδοπατημένες παπαρούνες
Σεμνά κάτω από τη διχαλωτή οπλή
Ημίθεων του δάσους.

Τα όνειρα δε θα χαθούν
Γιατί η κλήτευση ήταν παλιά
Και οι λέξεις αχρησιμοποίητες
Και η θάλασσα έπινε τον ήλιο
Όσο η λευκή πόλη καιγόταν.

Και το φεγγάρι ήταν μισό νεκρό
Και τα αστέρια ήταν από καπνό
Όταν το τέλος του κόσμου
Έπεσε επάνω μου, με χείλη τρυφερά.

Όχι, τα όνειρα δεν θα χαθούν
Από τους λεκέδες στο πρόσωπο
Και από τις εξαγνισμένες ανάσες
Ξέρω πως τα όνειρα δεν θα χαθούν.

Η χαμένη μου Σηγώρ ξαναχτίστηκε
Μέσα από καιόμενα οστά Θεού
Χωρίς ίχνος αλατιού για τον θεατή
Χωρίς άλλα εγκαύματα στην πλάτη.

Γιατί τα όνειρα δεν θα χαθούν
Αφού ψιθύριζαν το όνομά μας
Καθώς οι πόλεις μας κατέρρεαν
Στα βάθη μιας υπόσχεσης
Ότι τα όνειρα δεν θα χαθούν

 

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The Specter

There is a specter within us, a ditch so great. A deep trench, so deep that the stature of hope cannot rise and look off, and so wide that dreams, love, sudden joy and carelessness jump and fall into it without their air-course even crossing it.

There is a dormant specter around each one of us, and from time to time we get to witness all that it spins in its sleep, those moments when the world turns gray and our veins go numb for a breath. And sometimes the specter wakes up and tries to escape, and runs over the roofs scaring birds and cats – you’ve seen cats hunting specters haven’t you? – and breaks the finest roof tiles. And it lurks behind the edge, before the mute voice that defines us slams unheard-of between our ears. Then we turn our gaze to the specter, and it frets and trembles under the glare of our blind eyes.

There is, in each one of us, a great sorrow, a sorrow we put out with violence and whose words we melt with our heels. We spit it out when we get caught with it, and we hang it like a scarecrow – and if its likes want to join too, come along! Its loss thunders and resounds within our glittering armor, and our gentle smile is proof of murder when we pass through its flaccid air.

But then there are moments, quick moments of trance and need, joy and pride, when the scarecrow separates the eyelids, and looks back at us with a gentle smile. You have heard the sound you make when you break, it is dull and rhythmic and floats inside your chest – no one lives without breaking, you know? And then the beams and bricks fall apart, everything turns into an obtuse crimson storm that sweeps, floods the sternum, floods the eyes and coughs up life and weeps strength. On the peak of our greatness, where we sit peacefully on our throne and proudly gaze at our steel walls and our soulless, relentless armies, when our eyes stand still and the pulse quiets – then, from the trench that is paved with all the good and the worthy that gave way, the specter that we can’t humanly let go returns walking over dead bodies.