It was a long road to get here. Very long, my brother. The handcuffs weighed heavily on the hands.
The evenings when the little light bulb shook its head saying “time’s over”. We read the history of the world in small names, in some dates carved with a fingernail on the prison walls, in some childish drawings of the future dead – a heart, a bow, a ship that surely tore through time.
In some verses that were left in the middle so that we could finish them, in some verses that were finished so that we wouldn’t finish them. It was a long road to get here – a difficult road. Now this road is yours.
You hold it like you hold your friend’s hand and measure his pulse on the mark left by the handcuffs. Normal pulse – Sure hand – Sure road.
- Y.Ritsos
