Ancient Polis

The Agora must had been here. Houses all around.

The Theatre stands out on the opposite side, hanging

off the hill. Big white boulders, yellow thorny burnets,

lizards.

During the summers, at noon, with the innumerable

cicadas, the shepherd leans over the dry water well

and screams.

The shadow of the echo rises, leaden-silvery, paints

his face, chest, hands. When he goes back, his dog

gets wild, barks endlessly doesn’t recognize him.

On the whitewashed wall appears the erect shadow

of an invisible horse with a naked rider.

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