Yánnis Kondós
From: The Nothing Athlete (1997)
Fruit and Man
Water on the tiles
and summer lurking
just behind the door.
Your body oozes
dust, rays of sunlight, burning
and ancient. Shadows, voices —
out of gardens — lots of flying things.
The earth grows more rounded,
the sky clear, the clouds,
attached to mountains, gaze
over cities with sorrow.
In the fields, the earth tightens.
The leaves thin. The moon
glides low. A momentary
dryness spreads. Someone
wants to sing. Then a man
lifts his hands and cuts. The hand
remembers its ancestors. Fruit,
a caress, down, a kiss, the sun
— the still life of Painting.
Translated by Jane Assimakopoulos
Page(s) 28
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