All language subtitles for To hroniko mias Kyriakis (1)

The movie is dedicated to
Nikos Koundouros

The time is that of childhood
and of ageless dreams

Memories of a Sunday

Some said that a star just fell.

And some others, that it was only
a red rose that fell from the sky.

What is love, mum?

Love is... sun, skies and people.

That night, they celebrated
the victory.

They lit fires everywhere.

You could hear rifle shots,
songs and laughter.

It was the victorious young men.

It was the big hearts that won.

They celebrated the
great victory of the poor

As the night was falling,
the news came

that the lads arrive on their horses.

As the night was falling
and just before dawn,

they all sung for freedom.

I love you!

Once upon a time, there was a bandit.

At dawn, he would walk in the fields.

He was a great bandit;
that used to steal bread

and give it to the poor.

At night, with his lantern lit,

he would sleep on the root of a tree.

What is snow, mum?

My boy,

snow is...
the angels that fall down.

Autumn on Earth.

Roses that fade away at dawn.

Autumn in the sky.

Soldiers fight near the river.

The mother heads off at early dawn

to find her son who was fighting.

The mother heads off to find her
brave boy.

I raised you.

Sweet mother! Kostas is still
fighting in the mountains.

Before I come here,
I think of you for hours.

What is death, teacher?

Like the leaf that falls from the tree
loses it's life,

this is how human death is.

Tomorrow is the first day of
school for her child.

She sews his school bag and she
sings an old chidrenfis- song.

Tomorrow is the first day of school.

She sings and she prays that that day
will be a blessed day for her son.

Goodbye, mum.

Goodbye, my son!

- Goodbye, mum.
- Goodbye, my son!

[hymn, known as the Epitaphios Lament,
sung on the day before Easter Day]

All generations offer,

for your entombment
in hymns and songs its praises.

for you My Christ

What is war, mum?

War...

is a game with fire

and your uncle with the star.

This is the story of old man Stratis,

with the old carriage
and the aged horse.

It's a short and true story
about poverty.

At dawn, he left his old house,

built at the edge of the city,

among all the autumn leaves.

A beloved house, that during
all the winter nights

when old man Stratis had no rides,

the neighbours brought
some bread and olives.

He had been through two wars.
He lost all his loved ones.

He was Iefl alone
and struggled through life

going around all day with his
old carriage to find some work.

He followed the same streets
of the small town.

the same paths... and in his heart

he followed hope.

Spring will soon be here,
old man Stratis.

But you will not be here.

The foreign land took you.

No one uses the old carriage.

It doesn't matter if what
we expect never comes.

Faith is all that matters.

The sun will set in a while.

Two children, two joys,

twice the bitterness,
twice the happiness.

My sky! Sky!

Beloved soil! My homeland's soil.

We love you, old man Stratis.

Wherever this day led you,

we are with you.

They used to come every Sunday to
the same bench in the park.

They bought two bagels from the corner.

They walked around the big alley.

And after that they were sitting
on their usual bench.

When she was young, she worked
as a teacher in provincial schools.

He used to be a mariner.

They both were beautiful.

This walk was a habit,

ever since he stopped
struggling with the sea.

Every Sunday, at the same place.

Every Sunday, on the same bench.

Every Sunday, under the same trees.

Every Sunday, under the sky's roof.

Every Sunday, alone.

They had no children

and all their relatives were dead.

They lived in a big house
with large windows

and big white curtains.

They were together for so
many years and neither of them

remembered a single bitter word.

The sea taught me that, he told her.

Every Sunday was a day of joy
because of their walk in the park.

I love you. I always love you
like the very first time.

And she, a teacher in her youth,
told him:

Every night, even before dawn

when you talk to me, it's like hearing
music from the end of the street.

He told her about his days at sea.

When I was travelling with the boat,
every time the sea was rough

I was thinking about you.
And when the sea was calm,

I was watching you
in the window by the lantern

waving at me,
as if you were saying

"Welcome!"

And as I was standing in the middle
of the sea with my boat.

I was happy, really happy.

Every Sunday, both of them...

under the sky.

I love you very much.

For me, you are the sun.
For me, you are the moon.

Every Sunday together,
on the small bench in the park.

I haven 't dreamt for a long time.
For a vely long t/'me.

And then, in a sweet way,
he promised her a day-trip.

A day-trip that never took place.

And that maybe it'll happen one day.

He promised her that
it's going to be a great day.

The skies can wait for us.

That Sunday, everyone was saying,

that for her and the old mariner

it was the best day of their lives.

Before winter,

he was coming to the city's big garden
to steal flowers.

Then he left them in his
childhood neighbourhood

where he spent many years

with his beloved friend
that died in the war.

Two years ago, on New Year's Eve,

you left for the front line.

I remember that last moment
near the train, Stratus.

Back then life was still smiling.

You also were laughing
when a friend of yours- said:

Take care, Stratus.
War is tough.

You looked at him and said nothing.

You only straightened your cap.

In five minutes the train would leave.

And you quietly, with a voice
that was barely bearable,

sung the old freedom song.

I love you like my life, freedom.

I ache for you like for
my own life, freedom.

And then at the last time
before the train left,

You yelled from the window:
Goodbye, Kostas!

Goodbye, Dimitrisl
Goodbye, AIekos!

Then, where was I?
I don't remember.

When the news arrived: Stratus
was killed!

We couldn't believe it.

How did this happen, Stratus?

Was it snowing that day?

Was it sunny, cloudy or was it raining?

Was it at night or at dawn?

Straws!

They lit fires in the mountains, Stratus.

Last night our friends were
talking about you.

And they were talking about the bullet
that hit you in the heart.

Someone said that you're not dead.

That you're alive and
that you're among us.

That we can hear your voice
right beside us.

That you wen! for a journey far away
and that you 'll be back very soon.

You'll come back to
the old neighbourhoods

Where there are always roses.

For us, you're not dead.

You're alive. We don't
know where you are.

In a trench, holding your gun?

On a mountain top?

On a windswept field where
you're still fighting?

Stratus! Where are you?

Al! together, again, for life.

All, again, for freedom.

All, for love.

We left flowers in every
place you passed through.

We left greetings in
every place you've been.

Dear mother.

Last night I dreamt of you and father.

We were young and were playing in the
big garden in the neighbourhood.

I dreamt of the old table.

The table cloth you were embroidering.

With oranges and clementines on it.

I dreamt of you and the songs
you used to sing to us.

I dreamt of you spinning
around the table laughing

and feeling happy for a
celebration, full of love.

I also dreamt that the celebration
was for father.

It was at the break of day in my dream.

But the sun had not risen yet.

I was hearing thousands of voices
saying "Happy Birthday"

From the doors and the windows of
the neighbourhood,

many wishes filled the air for
father's celebration.

You were happy, wearing a white dress.
Dad was happy as well.

We were also happy and were shouting.

We were playing in the big garden
under the poplar trees.

Dear mother.

I also dreamt

that you called us
to sit at the table.

And then, at dawn

You and father told us
the story of a little bird

that nobody ever managed
to catch or kill.

Once upon a time

there was a bird that
no one could catch.

Soon enough, everyone heard
the story about that bird

and went to the mountains to catch it.

They chased it everywhere.

On the fields, the cliffs
and the high mountains.

But it was slipping away.

It flew over the roofs, the alleys,
the rivers and the seas.

Then people decided to kill it.

They got their guns and started
setting traps to kill the bird.

But they couldn't.
They couldn't.

They went everywhere. They arrived
everywhere. They searched everywhere.

They didn't find it.

They didn't catch it.
They didn't kill it.

The bird flew away.
To distant places.

And nobody saw it again.

And in spite of all the years
that passed, some say

that its soul lives in their hearts.

And so, speaking about freedom,

the story about the little bird ended.

And the dream seemed fade and grey,
that festive day.

And then father called us
to give us our present.

We didn't know what it was
and we asked.

The present I'm about to give you,
he told us,

you will not understand it now.

But when the years pass and your
mother and I are no longer here,

then, you will feel it.

Then he opened the cage.
Took the yellowbird in his hand

and set it free.

Dear mother.

It was a happy dream.

And it was a happy day.

From the team that blew up
the enemy's bridge,

nobody survived. Alone.

Hunted down.
In this small room of love

he waited.
Alone.

Desperate, he was
listening to her talk.

He was the last one
they were hunting.

He was the last one from
the team that got away.

And he was the last one that
they would kill in a few seconds.

Today it was Sunday
and he would go by the sea.

There, by the sea of his childhood,

she pleaded at him not to go.
From the night that was ending

and the dawn that was coming,
he had decided

that today, Sunday,
he would go there,

near the old neighbourhoods
by the sea.

What if they kill you?
She asked him.

Even if they kill me,
I'll come back.

Two days ago with some friends

they blew up the enemy's bridge.

Don't go to the sea today.

Yes.

He was like that.
Determined.

Alone.
Desperate.

There was no other road
to choose from.

They searched everywhere for him.
In the roads, the alleys, the roofs.

And even in the autumn fields.

The faith that I always
had in people

was given to me by
the sea of my childhood.

Doomed.
He would go alone.

She pleaded to him once again.
Not today. Don't go.

The childhood by the sea.

The childhood in front of
the house's wooden door.

The childhood of children's games.

The childhood of farewells.

She knew him. They would kill him.

Many years have passed since
that day of goodbyes.

Many years have passed since
happiness left Miss Eipida (Hope).

And also, many years have passed
since the old dawn of separation.

Miss Elpida is alone.

There are no more friends.
They all have gone far away.

During the winter nights,
only the old photographs are with her.

In spring, the frame with the roses.

Once they told her that
during autumn the nights

have no stars.

She laughed then.
She didn't believe it.

She was a young girl back then,
18 years old.

Now she waits for the letter.

A letter that will bring the
long forgotten April.

A letter that will bring
joy to her little room.

A letter that will start
with the beloved words

"I'm coming!"

The house has no date.

And the nights are exactly
like the days.

There is no love.

Only in the small garden
with the pansies.

She would hear the postman
from far away.

Many times, in her desperation, she
would run towards him and ask him.

Many times, again,

she was convinced that all had ended
and the letter would never arrive.

On Sundays, she watered the flowers.

On Sundays, she loved the world more.

On Sundays, she waited for Monday
patiently.

Elpida. Miss Elpida.

How many times did she fall
asleep waiting?

I'll be waiting for you
by the sea today.

I'll be waiting
where we used to meet.

I'll be waiting
near the old ladder.

I'll be waiting like before.

I'll be waiting for you, Elpida.

Miss Elpida followed the old road

and thought that there was
still happiness.

It's true.
He'll be waiting by the sea.

How time flies.

It will be night soon.

How time flies.

Nobody is coming!

How times flies.

Goa!

"Good evening" said
the man with the violin.

You are sad.

Excuse me but
the strings are worn out

Nobody came.

Miss Elpida.

Elpida!