On Yaros there are neither wells
nor shepherds, nor the sound of bells;
neither sheep nor goats, nor milk
to slake the exile's burning throat;
nor do springs gush from the rocks,
nor streams flow among stones.
Only those impervious to thirst
call Yaros home: the pitiless,
the vipers and the scorpions.
The silence of that island
spells despair, and not
serenity. You gaze within,
to contemplate
the waters of your soul,
teeming with spiked sea-urchins,
extinguished stars, black holes.
You whisper to the stones,
incising icons
on their surfaces -
shy offerings to Eros
the remote and seldom known;
you hoard your words as contraband
in bottles cached beneath the sand.
On Yaros there are no wells,
but you dream
of licking dew from leaves,
you walk oneiric rainy streets
where hope encounters love, then peace…
for Yannis Ritsos