Lust for Spring
Lust for spring
spreading all over
Επιθυμία για την άνοιξη
Se extiende por todas partes
Hamlet of The Moon
You fooled the azure skies above, and hexed them to black flame
since life has been a gift to you, without the least of charge,
the voices of a madding crowd, sounded all the same
with your drugged emotions that echoed falsely large.
Turn of the Year
As ever, again at this tide and time,
when a year sets in and a year flows hence-
As ever again the querulous rhyme
Of an ancient song fills my inner sense:
“Turn of the Year, turn of the year-
But does any turn in the road appear?”
When my years were fewer my hopes were stirred,
And vows I made (as you made them, too!)
Wiser to be in both deed and word,
The Old Year’s error to change in the New.
Yet I was but I – as the years flowed past,
And the ancient rhyme but mocked me, at last!
You ask me
what I’ve discovered
as I gauge your will to suffer
by the length of the pause I pose
between us. If you hold my eyes
and don’t smile but slightly frown
where sad news frowns
I won’t need to prophesy
for your search has began
When the sea is glittering gold
When you are driving on ehte roads of our occupied villages and towns
Bogazi, Koma Tou Yialou, Trikomo, the pain is profound
Last night I took a picture of my mother
Standing next to the statue of Grigoris Afxentiou.
‘Stand there so I can take a picture of you, too’, she whispered
I never stand next to statues to be photographed
Yet for some reason, I obeyed without refusing,
Intuitively I leaned my head tenderly on the statue; hugged it.
Ode to the Demon of War
Virgin to life, whore of the underworld.
Donned once with beauty,
Consumed now by carnality;
Deplete me of that which me makes human.
May your hand reach to my soul;
Poise it and torment it,
Lash it with the whip of your antipathy.
May the tendrils of anger reach deep to my mind,
Suffocate it with taint.
May it feel your wrath,
And your corruption;
So it may never forget the voice of beauty’s sorrow.
Droplets of Sorrow
The harrowing screams of death, a procreation of hell.
Our minds act as a cauldron for blood to boil,
Our tainted morals flow through our decrepit veins.
Dying is not nearly as painful as when you see it