ΤΟ ΣΩΜΑ (1. ΧΕΡΙΑ)

Χέρια

Οι άνθρωποι το πιο συχνά

δεν ξέρουν τι να κάνουνε τα χέρια τους

Τα δίνουν –τάχα χαιρετώντας– σ’ άλλους

Τ’ αφήνουνε να κρέμονται σαν αποφύσεις άνευρες

Ή –το χειρότερο– τα ρίχνουνε στις τσέπες τους

και τα ξεχνούνε

Στο μεταξύ ένα σωρό κορμιά μένουν αχάιδευτα

Ένα σωρό ποιήματα άγραφα.

  

Αργύρης Χιόνης (1943-2011)

Αργύρης Χιόνης - Βικιπαίδεια

 

 

                                                 Hands     

I

When I fall asleep

my hands leave me.

They pick up pens

and draw creatures

with five feathers

on each wing.

The creatures multiply.

They say: "We are large

like your father's

hands."

They say: "We have

your mother's

knuckles."

I speak to them:

"If you are hands,

why don't you

touch?"

And the wings beat

the air, clapping.

They fly

high above elbows

and wrists.

They open windows

and leave

rooms.

They perch in treetops

and hide under bushes

biting

their nails. "Hands,"

I call them.

But it is fall

and all creatures

with wings

prepare to fly

South.

II

When I sleep

the shadows of my hands

come to me.

They are softer than feathers

and warm as creatures

who have been close

to the sun.

They say: "We are the giver,"

and tell of oranges

growing on trees.

They say: "We are the vessel,"

and tell of journeys

through water.

They say: "We are the cup."

And I stir in my sleep.

Hands pull triggers

and cut

trees. But

the shadows of my hands

tuck their heads

under wings

waiting

for morning,

when I will wake

braiding

three strands of hair 

into one.

 

Siv Cedering (1939-2007)

 

Siv Cedering - Wikipedia