LITMIR.BIZ

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man says: Our camp will certainly fall.

      What do they want from us?

      Athens airport welcomes its visitors without end.

      Yet, like the benches in the terminal, we remain, impatiently waiting for the sea.

      How many more years longer, O Athens airport?

      I Talk Too Much

      I talk too much about the slightest nuance between women and trees,

      about the earth’s enchantment, about a country with no passport stamp.

      I ask: Is it true, good ladies and gentlemen, that the earth of Man is for all human beings

      as you say? In that case, where is my little cottage, and where am I?

      The conference audiences applaud me for another three minutes,

      three minutes of freedom and recognition.

      The conference approves our right of return,

      like all chickens and horses, to a dream made of stone.

      I shake hands with them, one by one. I bow to them. Then I continue my journey

      to another country and talk about the difference between a mirage and the rain.

      I ask: Is it true, good ladies and gentlemen, that the earth of Man is for all human beings?

      We Have the Right to Love Autumn

      And we, too, have the right to love the last days of autumn and ask:

      Is there room in the field for a new autumn, so we may lie down like coals?

      An autumn that blights its leaves with gold.

      If only we were leaves on a fig tree, or even neglected meadow plants

      that we may observe the seasons change!

      If only we never said goodbye to the fundamentals

      and questioned our fathers when they fled at knife point. May poetry and God’s name have mercy on us!

      We have the right to warm the nights of beautiful women, and talk about

      what might shorten the night of two strangers waiting for the North to reach the compass.

      It’s autumn. We have the right to smell autumn’s fragrances and ask the night for a dream.

      Does the dream, like the dreamers themselves, sicken? Autumn. Autumn.

      Can a people be born on a guillotine?

      We have the right to die any way we wish.

      May the earth hide itself away in an ear of wheat!

      The Last Train Has Stopped

      The last train has stopped at the last platform. No one is there

      to save the roses, no doves to alight on a woman made of words.

      Time has ended. The ode fares no better than the foam.

      Don’t put faith in our trains, love. Don’t wait for anyone in the crowd.

      The last train has stopped at the last platform. But no one

      can cast the reflection of Narcissus back on the mirrors of night.

      Where can I write my latest account of the body’s incarnation?

      It’s the end of what was bound to end! Where is that which ends?

      Where can I free myself of the homeland in my body?

      Don’t put faith in our trains, love. The last dove flew away.

      The last train has stopped at the last platform. And no one was there.

      On the Slope, Higher Than the Sea, They Slept

      On the slope, higher than the sea, higher than the cypresses, they slept.

      The iron sky erased their memories, and the dove flew away

      in the direction of their pointing fingers, east of their torn bodies.

      Weren’t they entitled to throw the basil of their names on the moon in the water?

      And plant bitter orange trees in the ditches to dispel the darkness?

      They sleep beyond the limits of space, on a slope where words turn to stone.

      They sleep on a stone carved from the bones of their phoenix.

      Our heart can celebrate their feast in nearly no time.

      Our heart can steal a place for doves to return to earth’s bedrock.

      O kin sleeping within me, at the ends of the earth: peace be unto you! Peace.

      He Embraces His Murderer

      He embraces his murderer. May he win his heart: Do you feel angrier if I survive?

      Brother . . . My brother! What did I do to make you destroy me?

      Two birds fly overhead. Why don’t you shoot upward? What do you say?

      You grew tired of my embrace and my smell. Aren’t you just as tired of the fear within me?

      Then throw your gun in the river! What do you say?

      The enemy on the riverbank aims his machine gun at an embrace? Shoot the enemy!

      Thus we avoid the enemy’s bullets and keep from falling into sin.

      What do you say? You’ll kill me so the enemy can go home to our home

      and descend again into the law of the jungle?

      What did you do with my mother’s coffee, with your mother’s coffee?

      What crime did I commit to make you destroy me?

      I will never cease embracing you.

      And I will never release you.

      Winds Shift against Us

      Winds shift against us. The southern wind blows with our enemies. The passage narrows.

      We flash victory signs in the darkness, so the darkness may glitter.

      We fly as if riding the trees of a dream. O ends of the earth! O difficult dream! Will you go on?

      For the thousandth time we write on the last breath of air. We die so they do not prevail!

      We run after the echo of our voices. May we find a moon there.

      We sing for the rocks. May the rocks be startled.

      We engrave our bodies with iron for a river to billow up.

      Winds shift against us. North wind with southern wind, and we shout: Where can we settle?

      We ask mythical women for relatives who would rather see us dead.

      An eagle settles on our bodies, and we chase after dreams. May we find them.

      They soar behind us to find us here. There is no escape!

      We live our death. This half-death is our triumph.

      Neighing on the Slope

      Horses’ neighing on the slope. Downward or upward.

      I prepare my portrait for my woman to hang on a wall when I die.

      She says: Is there a wall to hang it on?

      I say: We’ll build a room for it. Where? In any house.

      Horses’ neighing on the slope. Downward or upward.

      Does a woman in her thirties need a homeland to put a picture in a frame?

      Can I reach the summit of this rugged mountain? The slope is either an abyss or a place of siege.

      Midway it divides. What a journey! Martyrs killing one another.

      I

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