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.
Manolis Aligizakis 