That No Poem by Joseph S. Josephides

I remember, o people, how you used to stand pains,
a giant in your short body, you used to shout loudly
that No; they slaughtered you but you never died,
you threw stones to kill down the iron parachutists
and fought off the devil of frost, wrapped in woollies
made for you by the one-armed and half-mad women.

Time has passed, now I see you a stranger in lounges,
being attracted by shop-windows, by underground Edem.
You drowned in the saliva every word of the great past,
you left the ploughshare of your soul to be eroded,
you left the home-mother be orphan without children.

Shall we celebrate the Anniversary of that No, tomorrow?
Babbling? Fireworks? Parades for show off in TV screen?

In short, oh people wake up, claim to have a wise leader,
tell Νo to Creon, yes to Antigone, a holy concealed yes,
yes to Diogenes’ sun. Stand still, recall memory to say
how truly you used to irrigate the tree of freedom:

with the sweat of burning fever when you were wounded,
with the blood of tyrants who oppressed you inside out.