Second Canto
As the new language of despair
formulates new gothic phrases
I start filling my canvas with dark
red carts carrying cadavers
lonely crosses to the mountain peak
remainders of her flattened breast
finches firmly discolored amid the
shadow of magnolia leaves
orphan sound of a lyre’s suffering
scolds dawn when quietness
amplifies the petty and stingy Where
in hell is a grand goal to be followed?
Where in hell is a maimed soldier
to be consoled? Who the devil will keep a
black-veiled widow company
through dark hours of her
soul’s nightmare? Nothing reveals
a snip of shredded light other than
indifference of the neighbor who
trims junipers with a deep
satisfaction of sedentary life stitched
on his t-shirt’s nonsense logo and
what’s left for old Death to do
but toy with the ladybug
on His hand and enjoy
a disjointed farce of the eminent
teen who thinks He knows
everything? Are they not all alike?
The last hurrah comes from hedging
trees and withering hibiscus asserting:
we can do better
Manolis 