As published in Volume 10, NO 4, December 2013
It’s a good thing that Homer cannot see
the verb being carved up
cannot see buds
of words
in the pyre burning
for alien drought,
for stillness. 
It’s a good thing
that darkness has darkened
the pyres
in his eyes
and his gaze strays
at the turn of the centuries
when words bloomed
and the lilies were lily-white 
and fragrant
on the sand shores 
and words blossomed 
on the guestchambers 
of parchments,
written on scrolls,
and theaters
reverberated godlike verbs.
Happiness for my generation,
was my language 
on the coasts of the dream
on the froth of the foam-born
on the fiery chariot
of Hylates Apollo
the azure of the sky,
of the sea’s blue prow 
rippling with laughter
in the arms of the Cyprian goddess.
Happiness, my language,
in blossom
and blossoming
given to gold-knitted canisters
of a love endless,
in tenses where the Centuries
are given to inflection
and flection. 

The smile widened and widened
covering the azure-eyed sea.
A vast dead calm
and a sun the colour of roses.
Never did it foreshadow the thunders
of the morrow 
that scorched the olive trees
of the earth
and the hearts.
A gull walked alone
by the waterside 
looking for 
the azure gaze.
Loneliness is harsh.
There are no more smiles
neither ships
nor frogmen.
Only rubble.
The children are gone
but the gull is still looking.
It doesn’t feel the relentlessness 
of a cobwebbed world,
it doesn’t feel the moon
which went into hiding
so as not to see
“those that are formidable and unexplored in the world”.
Folly, selfishness
guile, inhumanity. 
Around us people clueless 
their soul galvanized 
with cheap veneers,
without compasses 
in the black ocean
where the Harpies
lurk with Medusa. 
The ocean shuddered at the injury
and Phemonoe swift-winged 
brought the news
to East and West alike. 
July 11, 2012



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