The Blackened Pot

“THESE RED spots on the walls could also be blood—
all the red in our days is blood—
it could also be from the sunset striking the opposite wall.
At sundown all things redden before they fade out
and death is closer. Beyond the railings
are the children’s cries and the train whistle.

Then the cells become narrower
and you must think of the light on a plain of wheat
and the bread on the table of the poor
and the mothers at the windows smiling
for you to find a little space to stretch your legs.

At those hours you clasp your comrade’s hand
there comes to be a silence full of trees,
the cigarette cut in half goes around from mouth to mouth
like a lantern searching through a forest—we find the vein
that reaches into the heart of spring. We smile…”

Yannis Ritsos, The Blackened Pot
Translated by Rae Dalven