Unsaid
He was ready to say something when He looked behind
our shoulders and agreed with those who stood
at the edge of the crowd. He left something unsaid, as
if the lyrics of the song that from young age we had
so much loved, words of ancient dramatists and of uncles
with jet black curling up moustaches and it was a sin
to think of beauty, murder to dream of Paradise.
We were ready to learn another song, although
it insisted to remain silent in our thoughts as if not to be
ever sung; the door opened and the other, the deranged one,
run to the courtyard with his arms loose and his eyes were
focused on Übermensch with his tight lips as if He was
angry and the butterfly insisted to fly over His glorious
head creating a perfect halo.
I like those who give right to the future and sanctify
everything passed because they want it to die with
the present.
Manolis Aligizakis 