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| Contemporary Art Print - "Alone With You" |
φυσοῦσε ἕνας ἀγέρας ἀλαφρύς: «Δὲν εἶναι γρέγος εἶναι
σιρόκος» εἶπε κάποιος.
Κάτι λιγνὰ κυπαρίσσια καρφωμένα στὴν πλαγιὰ κι ἡ
θάλασσα
γκρίζα με λίμνες φωτεινές, πιὸ πέρα.
Οἱ στρατιῶτες παρουσίαζαν ὅπλα σὰν ἄρχισε νὰ ψιχαλίζει.
«Δὲν εἶναι γρέγος εἶναι σιρόκος» ἡ μόνη ἀπόφαση ποὺ
ἀκούστηκε.
Κι ὅμως τὸ ξέραμε πὼς τὴν ἄλλη αὐγὴ δὲ θὰ μᾶς ἔμενε
τίποτε πιά, μήτε ἡ γυναίκα πίνοντας πλάι μας τὸν ὕπνο
μήτε ἡ ἀνάμνηση πὼς ἤμασταν κάποτες ἄντρες,
τίποτε πιὰ τὴν ἄλλη αὐγή.
«Αὐτὸς ὁ ἀγέρας φέρνει στὸ νοῦ τὴν ἄνοιξη» ἔλεγε ἡ
φίλη
περπατώντας στὸ πλευρό μου κοιτάζοντας μακριὰ «τὴν
ἄνοιξη
ποὺ ἔπεσε ξαφνικὰ τὸ χειμώνα κοντὰ στὴν κλειστὴ
θάλασσα.
Τόσο ἀπροσδόκητα. Πέρασαν τόσα χρόνια. Πῶς θὰ
πεθάνουμε;»
Ἕνα νεκρώσιμο ἐμβατήριο τριγύριζε μὲς στὴν ψιλὴ βροχή.
Πῶς πεθαίνει ἕνας ἄντρας; Παράξενο κανένας δὲν τὸ
συλλογίστηκε.
Κι ὅσοι τὸ σκέφτηκαν ἦταν σὰν ἀνάμνηση ἀπὸ παλιὰ
χρονικὰ
τῆς ἐποχῆς τῶν Σταυροφόρων ἢ τῆς ἐν - Σαλαμίνι - ναυ-
μαχίας.
Κι ὅμως ὁ θάνατος εἶναι κάτι ποὺ γίνεται- πῶς πεθαίνει
ἕνας ἄντρας;
Κι ὅμως κερδίζει κανεὶς τὸ θάνατό του, τὸ δικό του θά-
νατο, ποὺ δὲν ἀνήκει σὲ κανέναν ἄλλον
καὶ τοῦτο τὸ παιχνίδι εἶναι ἡ ζωή.
Χαμήλωνε τὸ φῶς πάνω ἀπὸ τὴ συννεφιασμένη μέρα, κα-
νεὶς δὲν ἀποφάσιζε.
Τὴν ἄλλη αὐγὴ δὲ θὰ μᾶς ἔμενε τίποτε- ὅλα παραδομένα-
μήτε τὰ χέρια μας-
κι οἱ γυναῖκες μας ξενοδουλεύοντας στὰ κεφαλόβρυσα καὶ
τὰ παιδιά μας
στὰ λατομεῖα.
Ἡ φίλη μου τραγουδοῦσε περπατώντας στὸ πλευρό μου
ἕνα τραγούδι σακατεμένο:
«Τὴν ἄνοιξη, τὸ καλοκαίρι, ραγιάδες...»
Θυμότανε κανεὶς γέροντες δασκάλους ποὺ μᾶς ἄφησαν
ὀρφανούς.
Ἕνα ζευγάρι πέρασε κουβεντιάζοντας:
«Βαρέθηκα τὸ δειλινό, πᾶμε στὸ σπίτι μας
πᾶμε στὸ σπίτι μας ν᾿ ἀνάψουμε τὸ φῶς».
Ἀθήνα, Φεβρουάριος ῾39
**************
The Last Day
The day was cloudy. No one could come to a decision;
a light wind was blowing. ‘Not a north-easter, the sirocco,' someone said.
A few slender cypresses nailed to the slope, and, beyond, the sea
grey with shining pools.
The soldiers presented arms as it began to drizzle.
‘Not a north-easter, the sirocco,' was the only decision heard.
And yet we knew that by the following dawn
nothing would be left to us, neither the woman drinking sleep at our side
nor the memory that we were once men,
nothing at all by the following dawn.
‘This wind reminds me of spring,' said my friend
as she walked beside me gazing into the distance, ‘the spring
that came suddenly in the winter by the closed-in sea.
So unexpected. So many years have gone.
How are we going to die?'
A funeral march meandered through the thin rain.
How does a man die? Strange no one's thought about it.
And for those who thought about it, it was like a recollection from old chronicles
from the time of the Crusades or the battle of Salamis.
Yet death is something that happens: how does a man die?
Yet each of us earns his death, his own death, which belongs to no one else
and this game is life.
The light was fading from the clouded day, no one decided anything.
The following dawn nothing would be left to us, everything surrendered, even our hands,
and our women slaves at the springheads and our children in the quarries.
My friend, walking beside me, was singing a disjointed song:
‘In spring, in summer, slaves . . .'
One recalled old teachers who'd left us orphans.
A couple passed, talking:
‘I'm sick of the dusk, let's go home,
let's go home and turn on the light.'
Giorgos Seferis
A funeral march meandered through the thin rain.
How does a man die? Strange no one's thought about it.
And for those who thought about it, it was like a recollection from old chronicles
from the time of the Crusades or the battle of Salamis.
Yet death is something that happens: how does a man die?
Yet each of us earns his death, his own death, which belongs to no one else
and this game is life.
The light was fading from the clouded day, no one decided anything.
The following dawn nothing would be left to us, everything surrendered, even our hands,
and our women slaves at the springheads and our children in the quarries.
My friend, walking beside me, was singing a disjointed song:
‘In spring, in summer, slaves . . .'
One recalled old teachers who'd left us orphans.
A couple passed, talking:
‘I'm sick of the dusk, let's go home,
let's go home and turn on the light.'
Giorgos Seferis