Mythistorema

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Our homeland is closed in, all mountains
that day and night have the low sky as their roof.
We have no rivers, no water wells, no springs
only a few cisterns, even them empty, that echo
and that we worship.
A stagnant hollow sound, same as our loneliness
same as our love, same as our bodies.

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Ο Λόφος

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Κάποιος είχε πολλούς πεθαμένους.
Έσκαβε το χώμα, τούς έθαβε μόνος του.
Πέτρα τήν πέτρα, χώμα τό χώμα
έφτιαξε ένα λόφο.
Πάνου στό λόφο
έφτιαξε τήν προσηλιακή καλύβα του.

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