This sun was mine and yours; we shared it.
Who's suffering behind the golden silk, who's dying?
A woman beating her dry breasts cried out; `Cowards,
they've taken my children and torn them to shreds, you've
gazing at the fire-flies at dusk with a strange look,
lost in blind thought.'
The blood was drying on a hand that a tree made green,
a warrior was asleep clutching the lance that cast light
against his side.
It was ours, this sun, we saw nothing behind the gold
then the messengers came, dirty and breathless,
stuttering unintelligible words
twenty days and nights on the barren earth with thorns only
twenty days and nights feeling the bellies of the horses
and not a moment's break to drink rain-water.
You told them to rest first and then to speak, the light had
They died saying `We don't have time', touching some rays
of the sun.
You'd forgotten that no one rests.
A woman howled `Cowards'. like a dog in the night.
Once she would have been beautiful like you
with the wet mouth, veins alive beneath the skin,
This sun is ours; you kept all of it, you wouldn't follow
And it was then I found about those things behind the
gold and the silk:
we don't have time. The messengers were right
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Comments about this poem (Our Sun by Giorgos Seferis )
(March 26, 1874 – January 29, 1963)
(27 October 1914 – 9 November 1953)
(4 April 1928 - 28 May 2014)
(12 July 1904 – 23 September 1973)
(28 November 1757 – 12 August 1827)
(10 December 1830 – 15 May 1886)
(16 August 1920 – 9 March 1994)
Edgar Allan Poe
(19 January 1809 - 7 October 1849)
(7 May 1861 – 7 August 1941)
(30 December 1865 – 18 January 1936)
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