I make up my mind and it gets dark.
I've been curious and studious.
I know of everything. A bit of everything.
The names of flowers when they wither,
when words turn green and when we feel cold.
How easily the feelings' lock turns
with any of oblivion's keys.
I went through days with rain
just like the trees' pain
when their last leaf departs
and just like the fear of the braves.
I went through gardens, I stood next to fountains
and I saw plenty of statuettes laughing
And little amoretti, braggarts.
Their fully stretched bows
became a crescent to my nights and I daydreamt.
I saw many and lovely dreams
and I saw me forget myself 1.
I walked a lot through feelings,
and there was always space left between them
for wide time to pass through.
I went through post offices and went through them again.
I wrote letters and wrote again
and prayed to the god of answer tirelessly.
a hearty farewell from Patras
from the leaning Tower of Pisa.
No, I am not sad that the day is leaning.
I've talked a lot. To humans,
to lampposts, to pictures.
I went through here, I went through there...
Everywhere, the world, ready to age.
I lost from here, and I lost from there.
I both lost through my caution
and through my carelessness.
I was owed a width. Consider it taken.
I was afraid of loneliness
by the hand of a quiet dust particle,
and others from the sound of a minimal bell.
And I sounded myself through bell ringings
of an orthodox desolation.
I caught fire and got smoldered.
And I never missed the moons' experience.
Their waning over seas and over eyes,
dark it has sharpened me.
As much as I could, I resisted this river
when it wad a lot of water, for it not to wash me away,
and as much as it was possible I made up water,
It's getting dark at the right time.
(The little of the world, 1971, Kiki Dimoula)
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