Far down, unreal under the soft rain,
the city; in the emptiness, only the
traffic lights changed unconcerned.
At night, the room was hot,
bathed in a bluish light.
For long, the glass walls seemed to break
under the shrieks of sirens;
in the lull, the wails of the plumbing
reached from far away, then died.
Only I, waited for the silence.
Quite late, past television voices,
the shadow from upstairs would start
to measure with dull, even steps the darkness,
going over the same narrow spot,
a desperate soul, sending obscure signals
to ears much finer than our own.
Maybe, as in the ancient stories,
the thing that they had killed
to raise so high,
still had a voice.
© Antigone Kefala