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.
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