A Dying Swallow
A poem dedicated to a prisoner
As the voice tears apart the air,
I choose to disappear, slipping
under the crack dug by winter.
My persecutor, harsh and ruthless,
holds my veins captive;
and the swallow, exhausted, dies out in my hands.
I hit the iron bar and with blood I write
the final verses,
scoring the wall with my teeth.
Perhaps, under my grey skin
there might exist a moment
when the voice will be at peace.
Notes: This poem was inspired by a prisoner I met during my time as a trainee therapist some years ago. The session took place in his cell, as his mental health had severely deteriorated.
I recalled that man and our session out of the blue this morning. A gentle man, broken by the world.
The poem was originally written in Greek (below).
Τη στιγμή που η φωνή σκίζει τον αέρα,
εγώ διαλέγω να χαθώ, γλιστρώντας
κάτω απο την χαραμάδα που έσκαψε ο χειμώνας.
Σκληρός και αδίστακτος ο διώκτης μου
τις φλέβες μου κρατά αιχμάλωτες,
και το χελιδόνι, κατάκοπο, ξεψυχά στα χέρια μου.
Χτυπώ το σίδερο και με αίμα γράφω
τους τελευταίους στίχους,
χαράζοντας τον τοίχο με τα δόντια.
Ίσως κάτω απο το γκρίζο μου δέρμα
να υπάρχει μια στιγμή όπου η φωνή θα γαληνέψει.
