Yórgos Chronás
From: Ancient Infants (1980)
Small Fish
With my one eye stroking the keels and the other
calculating the distance down
The seabed.
My mouth I'll open and shut like in the glass bowls
in central patisseries
Inarticulate cries I will not make
I'll sleep forever the stream will take me
to wake up sometime
In flames
in a black viscous liquid tar or petrol
A provincial port,
My body, blue sailors
Copper captains
Black kitchen utensils will mourn
Waiters will announce my presence
Children playing under the tables, on Formica surfaces
Ignorant ones slotting coins in juke boxes
in telephone boxes, for hours
Spouses will love the peace
Paying for the view with salad and cheese
they'll love women
The drum roll to suit my burial I'll not hear.
Translated by Maria Consta
Page(s) 97
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