Late last night I was informed
that now it’s permitted to import
poets from Ireland
subject to reciprocity.
.However what most concerns me is
that every night the painter of Gioconda
(dead now for five centuries)
retouches an invisible crack
in your smile
places upon your riddle
a luminous wreath of fog
for the hours we walk hand in hand in the rain.
Still there are worse situations
as for example
when the jester wearing two masks
enlightens you from the dark side of the moon
about the death of the colours
speaks to you about the rickety statues
occupying the benches in the park
their eyes sealed with filmy wax
varicose knots swelling
their legs chiselled in old days by Michelangelo.
Given that
I’m going to buy from the supermarket
tulips with an ISO 2001 certificate
for the alabaster girls
I met outside the cigarette factory
in my teens.
masks
a poem by Vasilis Polyzos
from the collection Ηλιακό ποδήλατο
εκδ. ΜΕΤΑΙΧΜΙΟ
2003
trnslated from the Greek original
by the author (© 2003
