translated by Yannis Goumas

I burrow deep
in the roots of trees
and hear the lapping
bringing sobs
from underground worlds

the history of man
hangs from my mattock

on dark nights
I find Ulysses’ mother
knitting him sweaters
should he return
“it’s cold down here”
she nods and laughs
“this is no place for the living ”

how can I tell her
that there’s invisible thread
whose knots don’t tie
only with every stitch
the sheets of dawn
are quietly unstitched

I won’t tell her:
mice in their mouths
don’t catch the eternal
they only dig.

     So Are the Birds, 2015