Σκόνη στο ηλιόφως και μνήμη στις γωνιές...

Όταν θα έρθει της οδύνης ο καιρός;
Θα καταφύγουν σε τράγου μονοπάτι και σ' αλεπούς φωλιά,
Φεύγοντας από τ' αλλότρια πρόσωπα και από τ' αλλότρια ξίφη.
Πριν τον καιρό των μαστιγίων, των οδυρμών και των δεσμών...
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When the time of sorrow is come ?
They will take to the goat’s path, and the fox’s home,
Fleeing from the foreign faces and the foreign swords.
Before the time of cords and scourges and lamentation...

 

Γιάννης Σταύρου, Πλαγιά στον Υμηττό, λάδι σε καμβά 

Τ. Σ. Έλιοτ
Το άσμα του Συμεών

Κύριε, στὰ κύπελλα ἀνθίζουν οἱ ὑάκινθοι τῆς Ρώμης κι
Ὁ ἥλιος τοῦ χειμώνα ἕρπει πλάι στοὺς λόφους τοῦ χιονιοῦ·
Ἀνθίσταται σκληρὰ ἡ πείσμων ἐποχή.
Εἶν᾿ ἡ ζωή μου ἐλαφριά, προσμένοντας τ᾿ ἀγέρι τοῦ θανάτου,
Σὰν πούπουλο στὴ ράχη τοῦ χεριοῦ.
Σκόνη στὸ ἡλιόφως καὶ μνήμη στὶς γωνιὲς
Τὸν ἄνεμο προσμένουν, ποὺ παγερὸς φυσᾶ στὴν πεθαμένη γῆ.

Τὴν Σὴν εἰρήνην δὸς ἡμῖν.
Ἐβάδισα χρόνους πολλοὺς σ᾿ αὐτὴν τὴν πόλη,
Ἐτήρησα νηστεία καὶ προσευχή, ἐλέησα τοὺς φτωχούς,
Ἔλαβα καὶ παρεῖχα τιμὴ κι ἀναψυχή.
Ποτὲ κανεὶς δὲ διώχτηκε ἀπ᾿ τὴν πόρτα μου.

Τὸν οἶκο μου ποιὸς θὰ θυμᾶται,
ποὺ θὲ νὰ ζήσουν τῶν παιδιῶν μου τὰ παιδιά

Ὅταν θὰ ἔρθει τῆς ὀδύνης ὁ καιρός;
Θὰ καταφύγουν σὲ τράγου μονοπάτι καὶ σ᾿ ἀλεποῦς φωλιά,
Φεύγοντας ἀπὸ τ᾿ ἀλλότρια πρόσωπα καὶ ἀπὸ τ᾿ ἀλλότρια ξίφη.
Πρὶν τὸν καιρὸ τῶν μαστιγίων, τῶν ὀδυρμῶν καὶ τῶν δεσμῶν
Τὴν Σὴν εἰρήνην δὸς ἡμῖν.
Πρὶν τοὺς ἀναβαθμοὺς τοῦ ὄρους τῆς ἐρήμωσης,
Πρὶν ἀπ᾿ τὴ βέβαιη ὥρα τοῦ μητρικοῦ κλαυθμοῦ,
Τώρα, τὴν ἐποχὴ ποὺ θάνατος γεννᾶται,
Ἄσε τὸ Βρέφος, τὸν Λόγο τὸν ἀμίλητο καὶ ἀνείπωτο ὡς τώρα,
Νὰ δώσει τὴν παραμυθία τοῦ Ἰσραὴλ
Σὲ κάποιον ποὺ ἔχει ὀγδόντα χρόνους καὶ ὄχι αὔριο.

Κατὰ τὸ ρῆμα σου,
Θὰ σὲ ὑμνοῦν καὶ θὰ ὑποφέρουν σὲ κάθε γενεά,
Μὲ δόξα καὶ μὲ χλευασμό,
Φῶς ἐπὶ φωτός, τὴν κλίμακα καθὼς θὰ ἀνεβαίνουν τῶν ἁγίων.
Ὄχι γιὰ μένα τὸ μαρτύριο, ἡ ἔκσταση προσευχῆς καὶ στοχασμῶν,
Ὄχι γιὰ μένα τὸ ὕστατο ὅραμα.
Τὴν σὴν εἰρήνην δός μοι.

(Καὶ σοῦ δὲ αὐτῆς τὴν ψυχὴν
διελεύσεται ρομφαία).

Ἀπόκαμα ἀπὸ τὴ ζωή μου καὶ τὶς ζωὲς αὐτῶν μετὰ ἀπὸ μένα,
Πεθαίνω μὲ τὸ θάνατό μου καὶ τοὺς θανάτους αὐτῶν μετὰ ἀπὸ μένα.
Ἄσε τὸν δοῦλο Σου νὰ ἀναχωρήσει,
ἀφοῦ θὰ ἔχει δεῖ τὸ σωτήριόν Σου.

T.S Elliot
A Song for Simeon

Lord, the Roman hyacinths are blooming in bowls and
The winter sun creeps by the snow hills;
The stubborn season has made stand.
My life is light, waiting for the death wind,
Like a feather on the back of my hand.
Dust in sunlight and memory in corners
Wait for the wind that chills towards the dead land.

Grant us thy peace.
I have walked many years in this city,
Kept faith and fast, provided for the poor,
Have taken and given honour and ease.
There went never any rejected from my door.

Who shall remember my house,
where shall live my children’s children

When the time of sorrow is come ?
They will take to the goat’s path, and the fox’s home,
Fleeing from the foreign faces and the foreign swords.
Before the time of cords and scourges and lamentation
Grant us thy peace.
Before the stations of the mountain of desolation,
Before the certain hour of maternal sorrow,
Now at this birth season of decease,
Let the Infant, the still unspeaking and unspoken Word,
Grant Israel’s consolation
To one who has eighty years and no to-morrow.

According to thy word,
They shall praise Thee and suffer in every generation
With glory and derision,
Light upon light, mounting the saints’ stair.
Not for me the martyrdom, the ecstasy of thought and prayer,
Not for me the ultimate vision.
Grant me thy peace.

(And a sword shall pierce thy heart,
Thine also).

I am tired with my own life and the lives of those after me,
I am dying in my own death and the deaths of those after me.
Let thy servant depart,
Having seen thy salvation.