Perverted Passion
Someday I’ll remember something so nice; it’ll be
autumn in that narrow side street with the glass shops, where
father sold dream books after he went bankrupt — since then
I never got out of the dream, although I was cold; at least I could
fall back onto my perverted passion: melancholy or crowding.
Because, let’s be honest, I never loved anybody and this tender
glance of mine was just for personal use
like the immortality of the poets.
Manolis Aligizakis 