astypalea


not to speak is best. to feel the stone muffle you.
not to hear the incessant clacking of the wind
echoed, trapped in your mind.

half-asleep in the cave, a woman sits on her cot,
inside her head she thinks smooth unspeakable words:
the man stands at a window of the cafe on the ridge,
his greeting a dark clash of flailing cymbals.

the strangers come and go for hundreds of years,
the husband pours the whisky, offers chocolate;
the mute man stands behind the half-open stable-door,
the weary light behind him lifts in a stone-cold dawn.

to be here is to be imprisoned by ancient defences:
something secret has gone missing and cannot be spoken of:
houses and castle hide by becoming this exposed hill
on a bare island seeming barren, worthless, voiceless.

the wind is trying to speak of blood, of despair,
of the years of submission, mute rage in the heart?:
the shapeless voice is trying desperately to rouse us:
far below grey waves batter the sheer wall of the ridge.

close the door. smile at small things. not to speak
is best.