Childhood Memory

Yannis Ritsos

Summer noon, the grownups were asleep.
A water bucket tipped off the steps onto the tiles of the corridor.
And then, beneath the corridor, at the very spot
that the bucket poured out, a cool storage room opened up
after being forgotten for years. Within were birds
taking refuge with tiny violins and tiny linen towels,
those starched linens of an old and sorrowful tidiness,
two broken chairs, a basket of grapes,
a pair of red sandals, a tall glass,
chalk, a school bell, and the tiny woodworker
that sawed the cicada's great stairway. Before long
a light breeze began to come from within
furrowing a trace of the sea and poetry's forehead
with that lame, neglected, and childish scowl.



from Small Dedications (1960-1965) [Collected Poems Delta' -- pg 140]