Armchair
The orphaned armchair designing
your body while you fathom
emptiness in the hallows of vanity
away from passion or liturgy
such as the curtain’s swaying
albeit some help from the breeze
a myth of your homecoming turns
the room’s air into pieces and shapes
of limpid alabaster yet you close
your eyes and travel to the moment
I touched your lips with my sun
your lips I touched with the sun of my youth
and the cyclamen sighed
not letting its fervid passion annul your lust
for a spring song
for the vigour and stamina of my love
Manolis Aligizakis 