Swan
We lost ourselves in unconsecrated churches
since the days of Leonardo.
On the wall we hanged
the beautiful woman of the loiterer
icon of an ancient youth.
In lakes
wedged between the beard of rocks
we saw our strange features
afraid of the thunderous flapping of eagle wings.
What we recounted wasn’t ours.
Coppers of the holy oak
in the trenches of red hills
that shatter the lance of winter.
Morning dance
that hid in the viscera of the oak and
in the frowning of the motionless stone.
Our struggle
our grief
buried in the unstruck chord of a lyre
that will brake on your touch.
Manolis Aligizakis 