and if you told us that we’d return
to our lively starting point that
has no borders and all are mixed
up in it, the mountains, verdure,
all gigantic and tied together by
certain magical powers, your
first motherland awaits for you
to give you an unexpected glory
that bestowed unto wise men, and
heroes, oh tent people, it will set
the throne of Maharaja for you
and it’ll place in front of you, the
lotus flowers adorned along with
all the holy prophets and ascetics.
We’d then shout at you: we don’t
want you to ruin our festival; we
celebrate the breaking of the chains
of whatever kind, of diamonds or
gold; we’re the delivered ones.
Wail and wail to all motherlands!
And if we have tumbled down
to depths unknown that no other
race ever descended time will
come when we’ll ascend to
immeasurable heights onto
the gleaming heavens; we’re
the race who are meant to erase
the concept of a motherland,
the precious maya of Brahman
the race of which hands weave the joy
of gods and mortals, its miracle
its best surprising deed.
The whole world is a gypsy,
that sits on a throne and using
his hammer and violin, creates
the flawless Ideal; universe turns
into an orchard and a May festival
for our only motherland: earth.
Manolis Aligizakis 