The way the earth smelled after a small spring shower.

To Myrto

 

I remember you said one word

and I picked some grass

with its roots full of earth

to rub on my heart and make it smell good.

 

I told you that when I was a boy

I liked to bury myself in the soil

and speak to the long worms

about the secrets of the earth.

Each one brings me a memory

and its voice is lost in the noise

made by all the different kinds of roots

as they burrow deeper and deeper into the earth.

How frightened we were when a seed burst open

and a new plant sprang out...

 

*     *     *

 

No, I didn’t like looking at the stars,

they seemed so far away and foreign.

I liked the sun better

especially in summer when its rays

danced on my skin

singing a strange song

whose words are buried now

deep in my memory.

 

Then, for the first time 

I thought about merging the songs

I’d been listening to all day

into a single song

that we’d all sing together.

 

This thought wasn’t completely my own.

I heard it said by a small golden-green leaf

which sprang out that moment

from the green branch of our conversation.

 

The next day I woke at dawn

went down to the fields and rolled

in the dewdrops.

My whole body shivered

and there wasn’t the tiniest cell of my skin

that wasn’t singing

a little song.

 

Then I told my secret to the grass.

The small leaves nearby

bent their heads to listen in secret,

hundreds of worms came down below, happy

to tell our secret to the whole world

Every drop of earth was joyful

that day…

 

Then I told them we’d lie down quietly

and wait for the sun to come out...

And in fact we were suddenly

so quiet

that we could hear

the distant song of Dawn

that is like coral

shed by the delicate tears of birds...

How beautiful that song was.

I wonder if we’ll be able to sing

as beautifully as that?

 

 

   *    *     *

 

 

No, I don’t like the song of the earth any more.

The roots tear the earth discordantly

and the sun’s rays shout, fierce and furious. 

Now I like the song of the Dawn. 

When I hear it I think

I am in a forest with corals scattered

by the delicate tears of the birds

in the peaceful glow of morning.

 

The little plants, the leaves and the worms

stretch out their hands to me like a sob

and call me, pleading:

“Stay, the sun will soon come out

and we can sing together.”

But can I stay far

from the song of Dawn?

 

For the first time I climbed the wall

of our garden and I felt

like a plant pulled from its soil.

Then I found myself in strange streets.

But the rosy glow shimmered

before my eyes and I was happy

that in a little while my skin would be bathed again

in that wonderful song.

 

*    *    *

 

As you see, I’m no longer a child 

and yet I still haven’t managed

to reach that lovely song.

I almost regret

that I left half my heart

buried in the earth.

I worry whether my dearest friends

will accept me again

and whether my heart will recognize me

now that it, too, may have become

a little piece of grass

perhaps a small bush

with a few red blossoms dotted

by delicate dewdrops.

I would love to go back to the earth.

How many songs will we really sing again…?

And now the new summer is coming

we’ll wait for the sun

to tell it our secret

and make our old dream

come true.

 

 

Athens, 1946.