A Century Of Sleep Poem by Chris Zachariou

I.

I buried my songs
in a wooden hut
and in the shade
of scented candles
I saw the Trisagion grieve
in the young girl's tears.

It's so hard for me
to bear this burden.
Who will
still weep for her in
forty days from now?

It's far too soon
to ask me such questions—
I want to wait for dusk
and for the kind priest.

II.

I have about me the scent
of spikenard and basil
and the holy father chained me
to the cantor's solemn voice.

I don't want to hear
the cantor's voice anymore.
The cantor's stifled eulogy
disturbs my sleep.

I don't want to hear
the church bells' sombre beat.
The wailing of the bells
disturbs my sleep.

My eyelids are heavy
with feasting beetles.
I want to wrap around me
a century and a night of silence
and sleep beyond the words and all
the noise of the cantor's chants.