All the years you were gone, I cursed your name.
While I endured the mockery of fools
you sought in whorish cities an easier love
to lock me in your jealous purity.
There were no mountains for me, no deserts,
only a blackening kitchen, the path to church,
the gossip of old women. Where could I
find any comfort in this village of thorns?
I dressed in black like a widow and made my house
with hard and bitter labour. I was the one
of whom they whispered, the one whose lover left her.
And now you say that I should wear this rose!
On 10/5/06 1:52 PM, "Jon Corelis" <[log in to unmask]> wrote:
> All the years I was gone
>
> by Nikephoros Vrettakos
>
>
> All the years I was gone, I travelled for you.
> I was searching to find the rose that no one else
> would ever be able to give you. Over what mountains,
> what deserts and what seas I passed, what rains
> furrowed my brow, what oceans made me their toy,
> no one will ever know. I wrung my heart
> into a holy chalice, and from it there bloomed
> that beautiful rose, the one that is as pure
> as an Easter dawn. Wear it in your belt,
> on your breast or in your hair. It will suit you well,
> like the sun of every morning suits the world.
>
>
> -- translated from the Greek by Jon Corelis
Alison Croggon
Blog: http://theatrenotes.blogspot.com
Editor, Masthead: http://masthead.net.au
Home page: http://alisoncroggon.com
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