Four Friends from the Village

Four friends from the village,

Met together at “Margareta,”

And made a household of their own,

Where ten men lived together at a time.

For breakfast, they told us

Cornflakes were the thing to eat.

So we went and bought some,

Certain we would dine properly.

A giant box we carried home,

Covered with many letters;

It even had red little spots —

They looked like strawberries.

We poured in plenty of milk,

Waiting for them to swell;

We drowned them to the very top,

Yet still they would not soften.

We set milk on to boil,

Perhaps it had to be warm;

We forgot it on the stove,

And the cursed thing overflowed.

The housewife came running, shouting:

“What have you done, boys?”

“We’re boiling milk — stop shouting!

It’s for the cornflakes!”

The housewife burst out laughing

When she saw “Kotex” on the plates.

The next day we returned

With piles of little boxes —

We found them very cheap,

But they were meant for kittens.

So life went on like this

For quite a few years;

We celebrated all together,

And our sorrows slipped away.

Nine years passed

Before I gathered three thousand coins.

We longed again for the beautiful village

With its many valleys.

Returning back to the village

At the beginning of June,

The sun was setting gently

As I walked to my uncle’s house.

All the children came running:

“We must tell his mother —

Kosmas has come back from abroad!

Surely he will treat us!”

They had three cows —

The small one named Marianna,

Another called GREEN GIANT,

And the third, PRINCESS DIANA.

I took a lamp and climbed

Up to the rooms above;

From the river came jungle sounds —

Night birds and frogs calling.

I tried to fall asleep,

But sleep would not come;

As though I had never grown up here,

In this homeland of mine.

At five in the morning

The roosters began to crow;

Villagers passed on horseback,

And donkeys brayed aloud.

I heard Nikolas the fisherman:

“Fresh fish! Fresh fish!”

And someone answering him,

“May your bargains be good!”

Then I truly felt it —

I had awakened there again,

Like in the years long past

When I was just a child.

On my first morning I saw

A yard filled with chickens,

And a great proud rooster

They called Gaddafi.

They named him Gaddafi

Because he was fierce;

Whoever passed along the road

He chased without mercy.

He never liked me either —

He crowed “ko-ko-ko” at me,

Dancing circles all around

And pecking me constantly.

And when we slaughtered him,

We set him in a pot to boil;

We cooked him the whole day long,

Yet still he would not soften.

Dawn broke on Souls’ Saturday;

The church bell tolled in mourning.

Someone had met his death,

And a mother wept in grief.

She cried without consolation

For her firstborn son, Giannis,

Who for years had suffered from a wound

That never seemed to heal.

Giannis was my friend —

I loved him like a brother.

Great was my sorrow

That I never saw him again.

At Saint Dimitrios they handed out

Memorial wheat beneath black scarves;

The men received it one by one

With open hands.

I stood there too

When they brought the body.

I bent down carefully

And took a handful of earth.

I held it in my hands —

It seemed to grow lighter;

I cast it upon my friend

So gently he might be covered.

For we surely know

That without the soul, the body

Is nothing anymore

But a handful of soil.

I looked around me,

Yet saw not a single soul —

Only thousands of written names.