DEMETRIOS CAPETANAKIS
ABEL
My brother Cain, the wounded, liked to sit
Brushing my shoulder, by the staring water
Of life, or death, in cinemas half-lit
By scenes of peace that always turned to slaughter.
He liked to talk to me. His eager voice
Whispered the puzzle of his bleeding thirst,
Or prayed me not to make my final choise
Unless we had a chat about it first.
And then he chose the final pain for me.
I do not blame his nature: he' s my brother;
Nor what you call the times: our love was free,
Would be the same at any time; but rather
The ageless ambiguity of things
Which makes our life mean death, our love be hate.
My blood that streams across the bedroom sings:
''I' m my brother opening the gate!''
DEMETRIOS CAPETANAKIS (1912-1944)
from THE ISLES OF GREECE AND OTHER POEMS
DENISE HARVEY & COMPANY, 1981
ABEL
My brother Cain, the wounded, liked to sit
Brushing my shoulder, by the staring water
Of life, or death, in cinemas half-lit
By scenes of peace that always turned to slaughter.
He liked to talk to me. His eager voice
Whispered the puzzle of his bleeding thirst,
Or prayed me not to make my final choise
Unless we had a chat about it first.
And then he chose the final pain for me.
I do not blame his nature: he' s my brother;
Nor what you call the times: our love was free,
Would be the same at any time; but rather
The ageless ambiguity of things
Which makes our life mean death, our love be hate.
My blood that streams across the bedroom sings:
''I' m my brother opening the gate!''
DEMETRIOS CAPETANAKIS (1912-1944)
from THE ISLES OF GREECE AND OTHER POEMS
DENISE HARVEY & COMPANY, 1981