THE POET
I had fallen in the depths of the black
hopelessness of the nightmare catalyst
in the heat of summer, the sad and sorrowful
deathly low note of the dreamscape
I had neglected my fate in my slumber
for years. Yet verse and rhythm were never absent
and I had climbed up to where the fount existed
where science said I had it and for this I climbed.
Because I had lost the regular,
the inspirer of dreams, the world’s prophet,
the spontaneous poet who leans on clouds
the great, the holy rhythm interpreter.
Manolis Aligizakis 