FOOD LINE
Translated by Jack Hirschman and Aggelos Sakis
It smells like Sunday roast
in my balcony. I stretch
my hands and find
the stove turned off,
the plates cold. I forgot again
to cook. I feel full
just with the aroma, even though
nobody’s asked me to share
the chicken and potatoes
split in three. It wasn’t by chance, I figure,
that I’d served in a battalion of undesirables.
Between death
and life
a broccoli salad
remains for me.
With barley-broth
and garlic
the pyramids were built.
Man needs
nothing more
in order to leave
monuments behind.
From verb to existence
or from existence to verb?
Whatever the answer may be
to the Morelli dilemma,
there’s only one truth:
slowly, slowly and methodically
I’ll be sinking.
Sotirios Pastakas, Greece
