Wednesday, January 27, 2010

Perplexity

Yannis Ritsos

Closed shops. Flour spilt upon the pavement.
Sandbags heaped by the shelter. Hands folded,
sad, he sits behind the garden's gate. A mob
of swallows flies over, their shadows crossing
his face. He bends over and gathers flowers.
He makes a wreath. Will he put it on?

from Correspondences (1987) [pg 11]

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