Yannis Ritsos: A Selection from the Forties - Triceratops Home

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Yannis Ritsos: A Selection from the Forties 69 The snow melted rivers rushed down they left too. Death walked in the mud the wheelbarrows in the mud. On the fallen door of summer they carried the dead. The cypress trees stood against the sky like rebels against the wall. The sun burned. The guitars of the gypsies were filled with blood. They make no sound. Even the mud dried up. We spoke about a sunset behind the trees and the hills about those orange clouds that don't let you end your day without assuring you that something will remain. We spoke about the roots beneath the rock. What can we say now? A movement only with your desperate hand to chase away a big fly from the dead man's forehead. How can you unfold that old voice in the presence of April and May just as the peddlers used to unfold a silk floral cloth before the girls' eyes? It has faded, it's gone, how can you unfold it before the eyes of the children who have no bread before the eyes of the mothers who wear nothing else but black, black, black ? And yet they talked, asked questions. They even listened to their voices. The woman took off her shoe and looked at it. It had holes. The sun burned the shadow of the tree in the street the road steamed. Soldiers flee run aim fall. From the other side the others run aim fall. Blood runs on the snow through the mud into the earth. Big rivers red rivers rush down from the mountains — you hear them in the night. You can't stay outside or inside. Where can you go?
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Yannis Ritsos: A Selection from the Forties - Triceratops Home

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