Take off your iron shirt and
all the arms of battle, put on
what suits you the victor:
the rosy chiton with the satin
flowers and diamonds; come
dismount your horse, so it
too can rest and grace the Polis
with your light, oh Sun King,
spread your light equally
so we won’t be blinded by it.
Soon as the hymn from the
Venetians ended a new hymn
started coming from a faraway
corner, a black hymn that
swelled like a wave, the tempest’s
offspring and it wasn’t hymn but
a wailing and a curse, which
the Frontiersmen sang. When
the Prophet heard it he shivered.
Manolis Aligizakis 