NIKOS FOKAS
Spirit Saturday
Trees swell this time of year, their aromas
Like disembodied spirits
Coming round again
As we the living wash off the gravestones,
Part of a pattern that excludes innovation–
Spring, summer, fall, winter-
Every change known beforehand,
Every revolution a repetition.
Because it's primordial, this cycle
Doesn't accept innovation, nor do humans.
Better, we say, to live in light like a plant
With roots in the dark, or in front
Of the most horrifying scenes to hide
Behind one's elbow,
As if in the middle of the night-better that
Than to fall into some third, unpredictable state.
A third state is completely unacceptable, unacceptable
What would disrupt the orderly interchange
Of light and dark, hot and cold.
Better to face, we say, Charon or Hell–
Better ghosts,
Who even without blood or brains share,
At least a bit, our belief in a yearly cycle,
So here they are again in the late winter trees.
Taking their liveliness, it's true,
From our pain,
They appear to be alive, but in our world
They're even frailer than we are. From their circle
Of existence exceeding reality,
They smile yet are absent-don't trust them!–
Though it's better, we assure ourselves, to have spirits
Who obey, like we do, seasonal limits.
Translated
by
Don Schofield and Harita Mona
