MANOLIS ALIGIZAKIS

MANOLIS ALIGIZAKIS

Years Of Hunger

I had only one childhood

onto which I entrusted

the tenderness of my mother’s kiss

her soft hand over my scraped knee

the Sunday clothes always ironed

smell of sea

from the open window

before everything was floodlit

under dimmed city lights

my hope and the oath I took

one way or another

to someday sit comfortably

at the big table of the satiated

Convict

He knew there was still time

before they took him for the execution;

for this he lied flat on the concrete floor

to feel the freshness of the underworld

there where the souls freeze at night

the hardness of the black slab

against his flesh resembled a door

before his eyes wide open.

Suddenly he turned towards the corner

where I was pretending

that I was keeping him company

laughed a hasten rough laughter

as if warming up for

his important conversation with death

and without any word

he grabbed his bag and

threw it over to me as if

he was settling his last affairs.

Then he sealed his ears with his palms

when the chanting chaplain

came through the open door.

Confession

My confession was simple:

father, I said, I’m a sinner

the guilt of the universe sits

heavy on my chest

forgive me that I passionately loved

the bloomed hyacinth and

the flight swings of swallows

and my two greatest sins

my unmeasured love

for the laughter of the child

and the beggars who stood

with their extended hands

filled with good wishes

my confession was simple

straight to the Purgatory

the priest delivered his opinion.

MANOLIS ALIGIZAKIS