The Spercheios River

 

For others it was the Potomac,

going up it,

for me it is the Spercheios,

whenever I have left the town

on holidays and at Easter,

with flashes of the imagination

nymphs of adolescence,

visits to an exhibition of nature.

And afterwards, walks full of companionship,

essence of everyday, enduring life.

And the flight far from the village

is the courtyard of our house for us.

I don’t know if it was Achilles’ homeland

or a fiction in Homer’s tale,

of my childhood’s hero reborn,

for me it was

always my own provider.

It was a homeland of sensations,

nature uninhabited by man,

nests of myths,

shoots of Dionysiac reveries,

Emmauses

together with music,

Fantasia Opus 80

of the Austrian summer,

of my own autumn

warm and sheltered from the wind,

with images of Palestine.

A pastoral for the soul

is this river,

it is something more than a landscape,

something more than a place of men.

                    *******

I see garbage

thrown out,

with very little to do with a poem.

Spirit of men their rubbish dump.

Further up, pigments for textiles

and an eyesore of effluents of North and South

cities of the civil war.

And yet, and yet!

Unimpeded, the soul

in the earth’s mellowness

rules over the landscape,

untouched, exactly for our poem.

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(Photograph by Yiannis Zisis)