Child of Serres
White city on brown soil plains, houses planted and breathing each other's hidden air. Serres rains me, three days, blessing or burden three days the same. I pine for donkey carts or the sun on postcards racked behind worry beads in the colours of soccer teams. Salads swim in the ceramic dishes of oil, late autumn leaves in grey gutters of rainwater. Bazoukis far tell their stories to nights I cannot enter. Television is dizzy, shiny, obsessive and that's the news tonight. Lights in the display become veiled portraits of other people's lives, frescoed brightly into distorted patterns. Street and shop signs are long strings of symbols, mathematical equations of place and grocers' wares. Cafè plus magazine stand minus traffic equals empty tables in the platea and only rain, rain served in short cups, rain that keeps the weekend's throbbing children indoors, complimentary glass of rain with every dredged coffee. I hear a shroud of water on antennas and empty balconies waiting for another birth, another christening, another party. Rain is a torrent rushing through me and cleanses the thought of dying; I fear it not, merely the thought of dying alone. Dance steps right, one two, past the old church praying at wet heavens, left one two hup, towards the ruins of the memory of the culture of grandfathers. They fell in Balkan fratricide or in the fruit shops of Sydney. Door to street, face to pane of glass weeping of itself. At night I hear the cry of a child from a building nearby. No name, no language, no history, just a human plea slicing through water. Long beyond fading of lust at betting shops, tireless souvlaki delivery motorcycles and the last beep at internet closing time, I hear that child of Serres. The cry speaks within me, a Greek anguish of every language. Once we were all that child, alone and wailing in the storm around us. Rain pleads at patience but three days;
a child's cry, longer ...
Tags: Greece , Serres , Rain , Child
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