III
Oh, Goddess, mother of all art
grace this troglodyte with
a path unspoiled by envy
never ploughed by jealousy, since
you can only purge him of ego
you who are consumed in fire
yet like the invincible phoenix
you spring out from the ashes new,
you reemerge with golden wings
with sharpened talons. Come and
grant this poor troglodyte with
the laughter of the perches and
sea anemones; come fill his deck with
the scent of the bitter orange flowers
dancing in his nostrils, with basil,
oregano, parsley, mint, and sorrel
with falling leaves and sunlit mornings
grant him the purpose of enjoying
the bursting thirteen-year-old breast
which dances in midair like an aura
and defines unfurled wonders and dreams.
Manolis Aligizakis 