Lass
Sorrowful night dew
between two legs
shameless moon splashed
emphatic nakedness
of the female youth: untouched
crisp, not bitten peach
spread under the light sheet
lonely like the barn owl or
cricket fighting gleam
of the night and
on the back of the chair,
her bra longed for daybreak
when it’ll embrace her little breasts
like a mother protecting
her two little daughters
Workshop of Dreams
We hang between time and space
fleeting concepts
mysterious genomes of ecstasy
pathfinders of transformation we weave the chaos
of our origin
in the uteruses of life and death
nothing is saved and nothing dies
in the infinity, we build the revolution
of a prearranged dream
The Horses of Achilles
When they saw Patroklos dead,
who was so brave, and strong, and young,
the horses of Achilles began to cry;
their immortal nature was outraged
at the sight of this work of death.
They reared up, and tossed their long manes,
they stamped the ground with their hooves, and mourned
Patroklos, whom they felt was soulless—devastated—
lifeless flesh now—his spirit gone—
defenseless—without breath—
returned from life to the great Nothing.
Zeus saw the tears of the immortal
horses and felt sad. He said, “At the wedding of Peleus
I shouldn’t have acted so mindlessly;
it would have been better if we had not given you away,
my unhappy horses! What need did you have to be
down there among miserable humans, playthings of fate.
You whom death cannot ambush, who will never grow old,
you are still tormented by disaster. People
have entangled you in their suffering.”—But
for the endless calamity of death,
those two noble animals shed their tears.
Manolis Aligizakis 