Tears
Tears run down the cheeks
of the statue during its hour
of meditative thought as if
a merciless thunder covered
the shining palms of the tourist
flawless end and nothing
will ever sprout in my palms but
thanatos as the sun shone hot
on the glyph’s smooth skin,
on the decapitated bust of Athena
under which I’ll bury the foreign
perversion: lavish tables, canned nature,
and preservatives when the arm
of the Goddess pointed over the sand
to the end of the horizon
where birds sang with lustful voices,
joyous and pleasant quivering, first
hymeneal song of my virginal spring
Manolis Aligizakis 