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Z213: Exit (Extract 20)
Translated from greek with permission of the author
by Shorsha Sullivan
Who are they preparing again for tonight? The scum of the morning
outside the doors, a drained heap, arms and legs
as if of statues, half-covered in mud,
and they are waiting, to leave (hollow and rotten
boats swallow them for nowhere,
for nowhere all together, with the smell of the earth closing
above, their good hope shut down again). And the
rest in a train where to, from a world that was,
until they arrive to where, far, where you can't feel, nothing
reaches your ears your nose,
only fear. And suspicions, sidelong glances tiredness,
each one a bodiless wing. Striking in the mind one by one
and together, squalls of sea-corpses, hooves of iron horses
sunken wheels, chains that sprout from the mud,
a friend at your side that weeps. And still
in these cavities, light from ruined arms gleams
like a candle as once in those country churches of
Christians, gathering coffins around them. These are
the very ones now buried, naked, and their bodies have rotted
quicker now, without cries and grief
and delay. And still the steps are heard at midday,
songs, death that sings through the womb of
your mother, of the women who were striving to rise up
from the clay, or hide it under their tongues, like
a secret, which if you had heard you would not have returned.
And still the mind always returns to the places it will not return,
it grows faint, I grew faint with all that on my mind, in the end
this bit does not fit anywhere, me, the head
sagging, the road leading away from the window astonished that
you still stand, as the pale lights outside were making me drowsy,
injections straight into the eyes. And still, I grasp that
the road runs also inside me, I see, as if it were eagles that
had come down stooping over the ruins, breasts open
over the lungs, hearts, withered
lost. And your brother at your side to weep.
Remember that old story no more, let go, it has already sunk
enough, that world behind you will not emerge again from the dark
already died, no eyes to look upwards, no head
to peep out from the shell. Just a bone
that reminded you of something, but not for long any more.
We left behind us this harbour as well, now we approach, the sea
has already appeared the rock of the burnt out Lighthouse they were telling you of
I am now far away, yet I still think of you for a while that –
you, your cities exhausted, the aged
children, the loves with bad teeth, the carriages full of
the drowned, the truth that tightens, around what happened it tightens,
you say it, they are gathered together, a circle, the gallows, the trees,
the fruit that does not fall on the ground, the bodies that broke from affection,
the friend you don’t see and don’t hear,
look still that beside you
Dimitris Lyacos was born in Athens in 1966. His trilogy Poena Damni (Z213: Exit, Nyctivoe, The First Death) written over the course of fifteen years, has been translated into English, Spanish, Italian and German and has been performed extensively across Europe and the USA. A sound and sculpture installation of Nyctivoe opened in London and toured Europe in 2004-2005. A contemporary theatre-dance performance based on the same book showed in Greece in 2006-2007. Lyacos' work has been the subject of lectures and research at various universities, including Amsterdam,Trieste and Oxford.Various extracts from the trilogy have appeared in literary journals around the world. For more information on the author visit "http://www.lyacos.net"
Translator Shorsha Sullivan was born in Dublin in 1932. He studied Classics at Leeds and has spent most of his working life in England. He has a special interest in Modern Greek theatre and poetry. (August 2008)