They gathered before sunrise,
to pump water into pails.
Heads covered with fichus;
hair pillow warm from sleeping.
While filling them
no questions
no greetings.
No order than those
of lateness and earliness.
They’re more like shadows.
One by one, they go home
winding up the acclivitous road.
Even the lasses will look old,
hunching their shoulders,
some having humped
delicate amphorae.
First round of the day,
the pitcher goes so often
to the well,
at last it breaks.
Later the scene changes,
another water litany develops.
All the heads uncovered-
but the mourning ones-
full of energy and curiosity.
They want to socialize
and gossip under the midday sun.
The funny wrinkles -
the laughter
and laughers,
they’re more like human now.
The third round, slower,
dusk makes them paranoid,
the things they spoke of today
about their lives,
the husbands, the fiances, the lovers;
whatever had to do with them
should have remained unconfessed.
They’re more like women now,
reinstated.
