|Yannis Ritsos, center. Makronisos Concentration Camp for Communists.|
These red spots on the walls, they could be from blood.
All red these days is blood.
They may be from the sunset, reflected on the wall across.
Every night, things redden before fading
and death comes nearer. Outside the prison bars
are the voices of children, and the train's whistle.
Then, the cells get narrower
and you have to think of a valley of grain
and of the bread on the table of the poor
and of mothers smiling at windows
to find a bit of space to stretch your legs.
In those hours, you grasp the hand of your comrade,
a silence is formed that is full of trees
the cigarette, split in two, moves from mouth to mouth
like a lantern searching for the forest.
We find the vein that reaches the heart of Spring.
***Voice: Yannis Ritsos
Vocals: Nikos Xylouris
Music: Christos Leontis