HIS LIFE

It was found on a manuscript, written with pencil and rather hard to read, full of erased parts, corrections, additions and references, at the back of a formal paper of the Ministry of Education and Religion, on blue paper, with dimensions 30X22.5 cm and dated June 1928.

On weakening, he felt a purity around him, something like the air of a hospital, a pleasant impression, like he had sighed deeply -- he always felt a short happiness, all the happiness he had left.

As if an invisible hand was holding in the bottom of the sea the leaves and the dead woods and the clay which would have emerged to the surface in a while, his thought could glow now, mirror turned towards the sky, a lake where green and gold plaques of light were stretching out and  fading inconceivable, without taking any shape, entering in each other places like generations, hastily, with the fear of the through of a stone which could destroy them. That impression lasted for a few seconds.

Then, memory would come bearing the snakes of the Past in one hand, and in the other, the dark expectation.

(Here there is a great silence, an empty spot which could hold all the flabby figures of reality).

Some morning, in the air of what could be a real hospital, after taking a deep breath, like he did once, he couldn't manage to wake up.

And that was life and death of my friend.

THE LAST ONE

From an autograph of the poet given by himself to Maria Polydoyri, who gave it to the poet, Myrtiotissa. Most likely it was written in 1922.

(Is she here? Is she there? Has she left? Will she come? Where is she? The last one?)

Ah! The woods there. A little table under the remote pine-tree. An the Night that was coming slowly so as not to feel it. The hum of the night wind in the branches. The words that were missing. The hands pale. The eyes and the stars. Midnight. Nothing was ever said.

(Lies? Lies? A game of coquetry? Curiosity? Ego?)

And sometimes it was the sea. Ships leaving to the horizon taking away our dreams. The lapping  with its promises. There on the rock, the plentiful and inexplicable tears. Loneliness in infinity. The kisses. The soul...

(Nothing? Nothing? Childishness? Romanticism? Illusion?)

Some times dawn unexpected and treasonous. From little paths the tiring return. The first noises of the day. The sweet repent on the face that glows. The greeting...

(Has she left? Won't she come back? Last one?)

THE GARDEN OF INGRATITUDE

I shall cultivate the most beautiful blossom. In the hearts of people I shall plant Ingratitude. Favorable are the Times, appropriate the place. The wind is breaking the trees. In the sick atmosphere snakes are rising. The brains, forgers' laboratories. The works are monstrous infants, they exist in the tubes. And in a forest of masks, you ask for living. I shall call Ingratitude.

When the last spring comes, my garden will be full of divine samples of the species. In the moonlighted nights, alone I shall walk on the curved roads, counting these blossoms. Approaching with my eyes closed, I shall feel their sharp stamens on my face and I shall breathe their fragrance.

Hours will pass, stars will turn, and the breeze will blow, but I, bending more and more, I shall remember.

I shall remember the clenched fists, the deceptive smiles and the treasonous indifference.

I shall stay still days and years, without thinking, without seeing, without expressing anything else. I shall be a bitter memory, a statue, with tropical plants growing around it, they will thicken, they will tangle up with each other, they will gain the land and the air. Slowly their branches will tighten around my throat, they will mix with my hair, they will wrap me with human caution.

Under their steady push, I shall be sinking in the ground.

And my garden will be the Garden of Love.