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,
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
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.
(Photograph by Yiannis Zisis)