Friends
It’s not the memory of executed friends
that rips my viscera;
it’s the lament for the thousands of unknown
men who left their blinded eyes
for the talons of birds,
those who held tightly a handful
of empty shells and thorns in their frozen palms;
for the unknown passersby
to whom we never talked,
those we only gazed at for a moment
when they helped light our cigarette
in the twilight path;
for the thousand unknown friends
who gave their lives
for me.
Manolis Aligizakis 