Saturday, November 27, 2004

No more


Your voice
In chirping murmurs
Wasn't heard from a far
No more
The yieldings of my heart
A profound yearning
From those clear urban mornings
Couldn't hold
Couldn't heal
No more
Its drunken pitch
Intoxicating and pure
Didn't shake my walls
As the winds shake your oak
No more


In my winter bruises
Through my brooks
You're vain, fictional and old
And all my capital
My thought
Such as the greenery
In the hedgerows
The voice
That woed upon my name
And wound my roads
Didn't call me from Aeolia
No more
Its dying caress
Doesn't poison my skin
Its lowering height
Valleys and rows
Have forsaken my soul
Long ago


Yet I so much long
For that voice of yours
That bestowed upon my soul
Ancient names and hopes
That granted to my youth
Riches and everlasting gold
For these days
I barely see your echoes
But in the thorns
That in zealous wrath
From beyond Orion
Continue to puzzle my sores


And in such bleedings
Looking into the canvas of my soul
Innocence and youth
I remember your voice
The thorns have come from the bushes
Not any near your oak
From within the gloom
Wherein, stroom this fog
That filthy as bog
Beneath my words
Stole your tongue
Its silence lingers
In my poems
For just too long.


Let us hasten into the days
When these pages
Sorrows will withhold
No more
For their parfum
Is a sallowing odour
That requires from our souls
To be covered with a wooden cloth
Let our strems hollow
So that your words
No need to be pronounced


I'm sickening in agony
And foregoing your voice
For its embassies
Do not reach me
Its false and shallow comfort
Doesn't drunken my boats
That sink into the night
As I drown in my black-hued soul
I hear those tunes from Cyprus
That have come to dry my soul
I shall no listen to your voice
But the Cypriot chariot-wheeled mother
Understands how much I long
Of your voice I'm devoid.

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