That old pathway
overrun with weeds for the times have passed
without feet walking on it,
because no one sought the edge of the wood
in the clearing on the sun-bathed hills,
facing the world.
The trailing sprigs of ivy have buried in their shade
those old memories
of a youth which, carefree, held in its hands
a bunch of multi-coloured flowers …
of choices which wrestled, joyfully, with one another,
with promises and unfailing pleasures without cost,
to enter on the road of life, to scatter
the happy marks of dreams.
But one alone was wholly unlike the rest;
a simple wild daisy, lost among them,
the only thing the plain silence gave
was a blue sky, so great and vast
that you felt a nakedness deep in your heart.
Strange to be alone with the grace of life missing,
so much unbearable responsibility there appears to be in beings,
such a lightness without the earth’s warm signs,
without bonds to be held in nowhere;
it seemed like death for the dreams of youth,
though an arrow of silence, unseen within the soul,
spoke of another light.
Now the years of choices are gone for good.
Only ashes have I gathered on the roads of life.
The soul of the dreams was itself of ashes too;
an illusion which wrapped itself in veils of light
to hide the innermost darkness,
not because the dreams did not become a worldly truth,
but because within themselves they hid the hateful dark.
And the choices were not many
-like a crossroads as wide as the whole world!-
but from the beginning they were only two alone
and foolishness could not bear so easily to lose.
And the self too was lost
somewhere in the sky’s silent depths,
far from those who govern the world.
But his home was here, empty and cold,
on the ashes of the spectacle which had ended.
But the roads of the sky are compassionate.
They threw down a second chance like a beautiful thought
for the daisy which, silent, looked at the heavens,
alone and fearless in that invisible world,
where the soul and the earth spoke in harmony.
Again I am standing at the crossroads,
but it is grey and narrow, it seems like death to me.
The second time looks like a severe fate,
again it points to the roads,
but I no longer look at the colourful adornments of the lie.
Only the narrow road is ahead
like the razor’s edge shining in the darkness.
I have been blinded to the rest.
An escapade is beginning in this old body,
but youth everywhere lies in wait, awarded by timelessness,
it is a thought, vivid as a beautiful sunbeam,
a faith so light you feel no touch,
for a world where self is no longer hidden.
And in truth the silence was not without a voice,
but all the sounds joined harmoniously in one.
But what is it that the old path hides?
I never followed it
at the time when I searched out all the roads.
A journey without a purpose and without care
given for the soul’s guileless joy,
for it to know without needless loads the world,
the ignored world.
There is the old convolvulus,
which shyly covers up abandonment,
the weeds and the shrubs of spring
spread far from the world,
to conceal from human shadows
that grace unsuited
to the world of men,
the consolation in the loneliness of the world’s beauty
which simplicity goes better with it.
I was filled with shadows and light,
voices of nature broke down lethargy all at once
and the inner silence seemed even more profound,
reflections of existence united the worlds
and peace dazzled the city with the lights.
This path reached over the hills,
as if it were an angel of light which soared to the sun
with its silver body and wings of leaves,
and there at its end was the clearing of solitariness
with the marks of life strewn on the ground,
like a rhapsody of joy, ended in the light,
when man found peace with the places of the soul.
(Photograph by Yiannis Zisis)