SUNDAY
It gets dark early. The voice of a child remains, a dry leaf
on the foggy page. Sunday
is the maid that just finished her work; she doesn’t know what
to do with her hands.
This tired Sunday puts its swollen hands under its apron
and snoozes sitting on the stool and listening to the noise
of the chimney funnel. Yet a few days ago
it dreamt of a colourful kite with a long tail, being held
by the youngest, most bitter hour of Monday.
The flour-glue dried up in the cup. And the small lamp
resembles the white shell of the egg the sick woman ate
in her bed.
An orphan star coughs just outside the door. The old-evening
sneezes in front of the basement window. The general’s
statue will freeze in the park under the wrath of the rain
and the years.
The wind unpins its medals one by one.
A humble sorrow is spread on your face, like the smell
of naphthalene on an old dress of the girl.
Only the harmonica song is heard in the rain
like a black dog forgotten in the desolate garden
and it doesn’t scratch at the door nor it barks, nor
it leaves.
Let us then open the door to go outside, outside
where the rain and wind will hit our face.
The evening il silenzio is heard from the wooden barracks.
What time do the soldiers go to sleep?
The trumpet sound settles under the pines
of the Sanatorium.
The sick men are laid on their beds. They stare at Eros
behind the shutters of the fever.
They don’t see it. It is far away. Come, then
light a match
to make sure we have hands. The moss of absence settles
in the overcoats of the soldiers. Do the killed soldiers
feel cold?
The spiders, he used to say, spin their webs on the ribs
of the dead soldiers. Someone passes holding
a flashlight.
The crutches of the week are leaning on the fence-wall.
The children search in the garbage bins.
Light a match. I can’t see.
A, yes, happiness is holding a loaf of bread underarm.
In the back pocket of winter the forgotten key
of the trees rusts.
When time comes. Who’s running? Get away from the window.
They lurk behind the corner — when time comes. They run to
the doctor in the afternoon.
He wasn’t there. He had died too. Did you notice it?
People have become very tight-lipped
as if they study a song. When time comes.
Hellenic Canadian Literature 