Yannis Ritsos
Days went by. The ship’s sail snapped in the wind.
The rope wore through. We gave up watering the trees.
They withered in no time, leaving neither fruit nor leaf.
Women grew old. Tiny snails
made their way up the walls. When at last we descended
to clear out the well—there was nothing there
but decayed dampness and a heap of rusty buckets.
We removed them. But the water had dried up.
from Stones [Collected Poems:I ]
(translated by Scott King)
Days went by. The ship’s sail snapped in the wind.
The rope wore through. We gave up watering the trees.
They withered in no time, leaving neither fruit nor leaf.
Women grew old. Tiny snails
made their way up the walls. When at last we descended
to clear out the well—there was nothing there
but decayed dampness and a heap of rusty buckets.
We removed them. But the water had dried up.
from Stones [Collected Poems:I ]
(translated by Scott King)
Yannis Ritsos
The tree walks by
limping
from the leaves that fell
from the birds that left
from the rope
without the horse.
from Lots (1977) [Collected Poems: IGamma ---pg 270]
(translated by Scott King)
The tree walks by
limping
from the leaves that fell
from the birds that left
from the rope
without the horse.
from Lots (1977) [Collected Poems: IGamma ---pg 270]
(translated by Scott King)
Yannis Ritsos
Yuck!—he said—disgusting. He closed his ears, his nostrils, his eyes.
What? What do you hear? What do you see? Seven bullets, eight bullets.
Even the murderers murdered, and other similar things
here and there. Toward what will you turn? What will you offer instead?
All the flags torn into strips through time
and not one on a balcony overhead will be lowered to half-mast.
Old newspapers drift on the water, right beside the drowning victim.
from Stones [Collected Poems:I ]
(translated by Scott King)
Yuck!—he said—disgusting. He closed his ears, his nostrils, his eyes.
What? What do you hear? What do you see? Seven bullets, eight bullets.
Even the murderers murdered, and other similar things
here and there. Toward what will you turn? What will you offer instead?
All the flags torn into strips through time
and not one on a balcony overhead will be lowered to half-mast.
Old newspapers drift on the water, right beside the drowning victim.
from Stones [Collected Poems:I ]
(translated by Scott King)
See also '' The ships in Eleusina I '' http://wwwplan-sequence.blogspot.gr/2011/09/2008.html
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