Yannis Ritsos
THE GIRLS lather the sun's head, and he curses like a spoiled boy when they thrust his head into the wash basin in order to rinse it.
Thousands of soap bubbles rise into the air, like tiny rainbows above the horizon of a spellbound butterfly.
The pigeons chase after the bubbles.
The light gestures, scolding the just waking swallows.
It's amazing the grownups remain asleep with so much racket.
We'll thrust a cicada under grandfather's nostril so he can smell our same spring and the end of his cane will bloom like a miniature cherry tree.
from Midday Summer Dream (1938) [Collected Poems: Alpha ---pg 347]
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