The Window

We bricked the window up, the wind blew from the rubbish dumps,
what did we gain? What did we lose?

Walking speechless in these hard, these incoherent years.

There was the room, so desolate. A lamp hung from the wall and
the light swung from face to falsehood.

We turned it round towards the time of memory.

Just a small river, its name lost in the silence of the sands.

We closed the window. The soil outside was restless and the tree
raved at the waxing moon.

Heavy with menace, the real moon emerged out of the dream.

_{Τάκης Σινόπουλος, Πέτρες (1972)
First published in Takis Sinopoulos: Selected Poems, translated and with an introduction by John Stathatos,
San Francisco & London, 1981. Translation revised 1999.}