We took leave of the snow.
We came here
in order to learn to breathe,
to live and to love.
Always searching.
The kindness in malice,
the right in unfairness,
the logic in slaughter.
As the Byzantines,
the crusaders,
the Ottomans,
or the tanks with the swastika,
were passing by.
Bent in the beach,
next to the pines
that have kneeled from the wind,
we try hard now
to put all those ancient stones
back in their place.
But to no avail.
Our memories have dried out
as the watercourse of a stream
in the summertime.
They will pass centuries for this soil
in order to forget our passage.
Dimitris Varos
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