POEM BY IOULITA ILIOPOULOS
Ι
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.
Manolis 