POEM BY IOULITA ILIOPOULOS
We have been living in fairy tales as discordant as the weeds in our garden. Alone.
And we uproot our love each afternoon before you water.
Whoever left his mark here, a tread engraved on porous stone, knows me. Many
centuries in the same four-lettered word which when erased it re-writes itself and
its alphabet is destiny.
Flesh of my flesh my brother and my man, listen to me.