In this place your truths are bleeding.
Athens is here no more.
She travels down a cart-track,
with a useless spare wheel in the trunk.
She named Hyakinthus Apollo
and Apollo Jesus.
She buried the cloud compeller
underneath chapels of Prophet Elias.
And chapels of Prophet Elias
underneath TV antennae.
And it is five past ten in the morning.
Eilithyia descends Parnitha,
bearing an arm of death flowers.
Smell the wind.
Listen to the birds of Teiresias.
This morning carries a strange message for you.
The dream is a broken glass in your stomach.
How can you live without its glow?
And how can you put it back together again?
You shall bleed in any case.
Lean towards the earth.
Wash away your vows at Styx.
And just like Alkyoneas,
abandon Pallini.
Dimitris Varos
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