Manolis

Μυρτώ Αναγνωστοπούλου, Να τραγουδήσεις τώρα

Γιώργος Μύαρης, Corcura et fortuna

Poem by Romos Fyliras

I Wish I Could be

A bird that sings

with the wind of youth

on a simple branch

with flowers of my first love

but the song turned

soon to mourning.

I wasn’t meant to be

what I’ve forever dreamed of. 

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Χ.Π. Σοφίας (1965-2024), Τρία ποιήματα

Midnight

Every night, after the twelfth call of the clock the aged woman

           gets up,

pushes her hair away from her eyes with a strange motion

as if she grabs the coat of a thief who jumps out of

           the window.

Then, she is awake. Puts on her slippers. Goes close

           to the mirror.

She looks at herself; she notices between her eyes, behind the mirror,

           the spiders, the drops of dampness.

Exactly at this moment, she hears the fine golden leaves falling

           outside on the cobblestone road,

the snail that climbs onto the big lock of the storage room,

the worms that stir in the flowerpots and the old chests.

           The dead, she says,

don’t wear out their shoes — they walk softly, so softly. The dead

walk amongst us or sometimes, for reasons of economy, they wear

           our shoes.

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