The bread and the knife lie down like brothers…
—Costas Koulafakos
From the upper window the moon's marble dust falls slowly,
whitens the grime of the kerosene stove,
gives a cardboard box its original shine
as when it first arrived as a parcel,
erases wrinkles from the faces of the comrades,
makes them smooth again as when they first joined the movement…
These people and things lie down like brothers,
only the crackle of the canvas is heard
as it rots, as the tent, death, and sleep constantly rot
—it's time to rain at last, for everything to become mud,
with no illusions, to be reborn through the mud
if they can, in the light.
