Years and years of silent labour
the Penelopes of my homeland
wove their own and their children's shrouds
without a sign of Odysseus returning.
Years and years of widowhood they lived
without realising, without ever thinking
that their dream was dead the day it was dreamt,
that their colourful future was all in the past,
that they had lived their destinies
and there was nothing else to live through.
Years and years of avoiding despair, not giving up,
holding on to hopes raised by palm-readers,
holding on to the wishful dreams of the nights
and to the just God
who does not allow such nightmares to continue.
Years and years of raising more Penelopes and Odysseuses
the waiting mothers of my homeland grew old and older
without ever knowing that they were waiting,
without ever knowing that they should stop waiting.
Years and years of youth that was there and went unnoticed
of passionate love that wasn't made
of no knocking on the door after midnight
returning from a very long journey.
The Penelopes of my homeland died slowly
carrying their dreams to their graves,
leaving more Penelopes to take their place.