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A DAGGER |
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I always carry tightly under my belt |
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a small african steel dagger |
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-- like those that blacks are used to playing with -- |
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that I bought from an old merchant in Algiers. |
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I remember, as if it were now, the old shopkeeper, |
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who looked like an old oil painting by Goya, |
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standing next to long swords and tattered uniforms, |
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saying in a hoarse voice the following words : |
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"This here dagger that you want to buy |
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legend has surrounded with eery stories, |
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and everyone knows that those who owned it at some time, |
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each has murdered one close to him. |
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Don Basilio murdered Donna Julia with it, |
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his beautiful wife, because she was unfaithful. |
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Conte Antonio, one night, his wretched brother |
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was slyly murdering with this here dagger. |
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A black his young lover out of jealousy |
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and some Italian sailor a Greek boatswain. |
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From hand to hand it passed and into mine. |
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Many things my eyes have seen, but this one makes me quiver. |
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Come close and look at it, it has an anchor and a crest, |
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it's light, why take it, it's not even a quarter, |
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but I would advise you to buy something else." |
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-- How much? -- Seven francs only. As long as you want it, take it. |
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A small dagger I have tightly in my belt, |
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that a whim made me make it my own; |
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and because I hate no one in the world to kill, |
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I am afraid lest some day I turn it against myself ... |
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~ Nikos Kavvadias ~ |
