the final day

the day was cloudy

no-one could come to a decision

a light breeze was blowing: 'not north-east, the sirocco' someone said

a few slender cypresses nailed to the slope, and the sea

grey with splashes of light beyond

the soldiers presented arms as it began to drizzle

'not north-east, the sirocco' was all that was decided on

but we knew that by dawn

nothing would be left to us

not the woman drinking deep of sleep at our side

nor the memory that once we were men

nothing at all at the coming of dawn

'this wind reminds me of spring', said my friend

as she walked beside me and gazed into the distance

'the spring that came so suddenly in winter to the enclosed sea

so unexpected; so many years have passed: how will we die?'

a funeral procession went by in the thin rain

how does one die? strangely no-one ever thought about this

or, if someone did, it was like a collection from old chronicles

from the time of the Crusades or the battle of Salamis

yet death is something that happens

how does one die?

each of us earns his death

the death which is yours alone and belongs to no-one else

and this game is life

the light was fading from the clouded day

no-one has decided anything

at dawn nothing would be left to us

everything surrendered, even our hands

and our women, slaves at the fountains and our children

from the quarries

my friend walking beside me sang fragments of a song

'in spring, in summer, slaves...'

one recalled old teachers who left us as orphans 

a couple walked past, talking

'I'm sick  of the dusk, let's go home

let's go home and turn on the lights'