OLD MEN

“Old Men”.  That’s what they’re called.  Not Andrew, George,

Elias or Theodosis, but like ants

that live beyond good and evil

without special physiognomy,

as dogs and horses,

like masks: wrinkle-lipped

terra-cottas, drowned feelings, wounds and holes.

That’s what they look like.  Sometimes they remember them

and stick a knife into their bellies,

shove soft pears down their throats

or cut off their finger wearing a wedding ring.

They themselves wrap a bandage round their hand,

say nothing to anyone  

and it’s a if they expiate themselves in white,

they feel better,

as if having gone through a snowy night

but the heavy snow blinded them

they can no longer bear the white

and so they sink even deeper

in memory, sewers, black,

there where everything shines ageless,

there where for a few pennies they have a kiss on the lips.

But sometimes they make love (well,

so to speak) --

and instead of closing their eyes like those strange fellows

they open them wide, astonished, abysmal

and transparent.

They suck the horny penis

like their mother’s nipple

and afterwards rub gently the milk

on their face

deep inside a forest with ivy and wild strawberries.

They click their tongue.

They hand over their wallet but keep

some old black-and-white photos

and are careful changing the bandage on their hand.   

Translated from the Greek by Yannis Goumas