. . . 

You say nothing
You justify yourself with powerlessness
you raise up
you drink up cornelian-cherry juice
you open and close the door
(violating the emptiness of time)
you keep saying nothing
you excuse yourself with impotence
you take a handkerchief
you do not see it but you feel your breath
you sit down again at the table
you move your fingers over your machine
the machine ticks in your ear
and in your brain
you look at times at clock
but you're out of time
you do not say anything
but that speechlessness is being printed under
your fingers
you blame for it your machine
you're still alive
by what you justify it
but with the unnecessariness of dying


Dead city

It is noon
Bouquets* of the church bells on the lifeless sky
Down the street move the bodies
touching each other
as you continue to live your
introverted adventure

You will cross again the street on the corner
T-s and KT-s
A Cadre from the big city
You will take then that on the left
in the direction of an (alleged) chance

From three to five
(with another twenty introverted faces)
you will watch Buñuel
After the film you will shake in passing
a frostbitten hand
Minus five below zero
On the hills the white accents, in Hong Kong
Li Cao mourns her husband

À ce soir, you confide in an acquaintance
from a friendship club, even though you know
that it will not be so, because
this is a dead city

In their soul all wear black
because this is a dead city
One of threehundredandsixtyfive
of its holidays

A poet-
Yiannis Ritsos)


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