The one lost unexpectedly one evening
(and may be they'd taken him away)
had left on the kitchen table his woolly gloves,
like two hands that were cut off
with no blood,no fight,just peacefully
or better, as if his own hands
of a very ancient patience,
there through the soft woolen fingers
putting at some time a slice of bread
a flower,or our glass of wine,
knowing in serenity
that gloves never wear hand-cuffs.
Giannis Ritsos
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