III
Heavy with time.
Time now made of lead.
Time now made of silence
A voracious feeding on the past.
Time now made of fire.
Time now a suffocation
whistling in your veins.
Time now a chill
a fever that invades the air
ignited liquid
and you sink in unsuspecting
and you drink with greed
hoping for a release.
IV
Constantly searching
in these underground rooms
to find you
to reach you
to tell you something.
The rain falling, falling
in grey metal sheens.
Inside, at the stone tables
the same shadows waiting,
speechless,
crinking at the source of the black light.
But from the ground, unfolding
silently its secret message,
the red tulip,
alive, closing and opening its lips.
V
The air was full of voices,
of lament,
the face of a young woman kept
flashing on the giant screen.
I jumped in the deserted ring,
wings were sprouting at my back,
growing, unfolding
with a mechanical sound.
Yet all was in vain
I kept stretching my hands
but could grasp nothing,
just light, waves of light
flowing through my fingers
insubstantial.
Antigone Kefala is a contemporary Australian poet and prose-writer of Greek-Romanian heritage. She has been a member of the Literature Board of the Australia Council and is acknowledged as being an important voice in capturing the migrant experience in contemporary Australia.
