Wednesday, January 14, 2009


Yannis Ritsos

Shapes dissolved, set in motion—a flood of uneasiness
and treacherous currents—the sound of water overtakes you
imponderable, deep, uncontrollable; you too are uncontrollable,
almost free.
Before long, inquisitive women arrived,
and certain old men also, with pitchers, tin cans, and pots
to gather water for their household chores. The water took on shape.
The river quieted down as it flowed away. Night came. Doors closed.
One woman remained outside in the garden, alone, without a pitcher,
moonlit water, transparent, a flower in her hair.

May 15, 1968
Partheni concentration camp

from Stones [Collected Poems: I ]

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