translated by the poet


my dead ones live
in formaldehyde
they plough vertically through the days
they shoot raw reality at me
I sprout legs in their yard
I fear growing up

they think up ways

they stage inchoate departures
at night
we bargain with the impossible
coins being scarce
- the open fields arithmetic
has changed of late –
we count fingers, bones, memories
all of them incomplete
every morning we put together deficiencies

further down life tastes of leaves
rotting away in the earth


     Melani ston ouranisko (Ink-stained palate), Melani Pubs, 2015