The last sunny days of autumn - fishing boatsSad as they return in the evening,By the sea the trinket shops closed, before the glass doorof the caféslow are the gestures of the wind,a fisherman beats an octopus on the stone bench,the seagulls in the gleam of the waterhang like little plaster masks.
Ah, that neighbor girl in her tight clothes,With hands rough from work, with damp grass in her hair,With the scent of morning soap in her step,With two early lilacs blooming in her patience,Has a mother’s down in her touch, as if the clouds took her behind the mountains,Far, far away, to tidy up their rooms,To wash the underclothes of the sorrowful? Good evening, my evening star, she said,Our house is lonely. He hasn’t come yet.The gate has remained like a closed book.Time, hard of hearing, drags the moth while smoking its pipe alone,Neither cry, nor silence, nor song brings it back.In the gray of the window a branch where four stars hung,If only those were ours at least, she had said. They are not.
Outside in the neighborhood, children’s voices. A scent of roasted chestnuts.Barefoot autumn with pockets full of salted sunflower seeds.The shadow of the observatory, a blind man’s accordion and a guitar,Two silent children walking in the station holding hands.And it clouds over. On the street corner the baker takes a piss.Nothing was left,Only the boats in the roar of the stormWill creak their boards now, will get soaked.They will not last until next year.
Translated from Greek by Pilo Zyba
