Yannis Ritsos
Saturday, Sunday, Saturday again—and before you know it, Monday.
A quiet dusk without color, or trees, or chairs.
We have nothing to spend. The old pitcher on the dinner table;
the plates, the glasses, the sad hands, the deserted—
the spoon rises; another mouth finds it—but which mouth?
Who eats? Who grows quiet? In the open window
a small, forgotten moon swallows its own spit.
It's not that we're no longer growing fat, but that we're no longer hungry.
June 4, 1968
Partheni concentration camp
from Stones [Collected Poems:I ]
No comments:
Post a Comment