Void
Don’t call it void or meaningless,
this poem, only empty of what
you’ve deleted its meaning and
still full of twists and mental corners
robbed of its depth like
his palms nailed on the cross
didn’t let the tree limb
extend and gain wisdom
but it was spring
their boiling blood
forced their eager hands
to rob this poem
of its unwritten meaning
nothing on the branch of the birch
but the lone owl crying
give me strength and give me air:
wisdom filling the abyss
Manolis Aligizakis 