Here the days do not dissolve in the air
They drop into the water
Forming their very own layer
A surface of separation.
A hawk flies above the body of summer
He dives again and again
Feeding and getting drunk on falling.
There is nothing here
Only crazy wind and stones
A random promise
Sharpens our lust with the blade of the moon.
When I arrived for the first time in this landscape of endings
The wind entered my mouth with such fury
As if I were its sole receptacle
Until all my words disappeared.
Every tree receives the wind differently
Some suffer others resist
(I met a palm tree that gave birth to the wind and distributed it
in every direction)
Others shake all over and change colors.
I of course am not a tree
I sat down and wore the wind as a coat.
I bent my head and looked at the ground.
From its crevices, the roots of thyme
with their hieroglyphics struggled to enter the light.
Then the words came back.
Translated by John O'Kane
The southern most tip of continental Greece. Ancient Greeks believed it to be the end of the world.