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]

Hearing

Yannis Ritsos

In the midst of so much noise
pockets of silence. We hear distinctly
the soundless depth. Time expands.
Old men pass over the bridge with canes.
Two bicyclers take the hillside trail.
The great birds arrive.



from Correspondences (1987) [pg 8]