Yannis Ritsos
WE DON'T love, at this time, the books with their verses like slim monks.
We do not love our distant cousins that arrive from the capitol and wear double vests and who always have colds.
We walk without shoes on the hot ground, undress beneath the plane trees and wrestle, we play war throwing stones, we release kites and bathe in the river together with the blackbirds and the partridges.
We have hidden a bumble bee in our school bag and listened to it buzz during arithmetic.
We hardly remain in the house an instant.
We go out to the fields and check our traps.
Upon the threshing floor the haystacks shine like naked breasts and the horses race at midday, trampling the ears of grain and getting lost in the woods.
When evening comes, the horses return to the farmyard tame and the lazy tortoises pick daisies in the silent fields.
The hour smells of sweat and retsina as the evening smoke rises over the roofs and we stayed on the road a while gathering stars to show our mother that we also did something and that their concern about our day was not in vain.
Still the grownups don't know what we look at , they don't know our harvest nor are they able to eat of our wheat.
Nevertheless we caress our mother's tired hands all the while watching, far off, the Great Bear in its golden pelt.
from Midday Summer Dream (1938) [Collected Poems: Alpha ---pg 347-348]
No comments:
Post a Comment