To the Unknown Poet
1969
Righas Pheraios, I call on you, you!
From Australia to Canada
and from Germany to Tashkent
in prisons, in the mountains and islands
the Greeks are scattered.
Dionysios Solomos, I call on you, you!
Jailed and jailors
beaten and beaters
commanded and commanders
terrorizers and terrorized
occupiers and occupied
divided in two, the Greeks.
Andreas Kalvos, I call on you, you!
Brilliant, the sun marvels,
the mountains and the firs
the shores and the nightingales marvel.
Cradle of beauty and measure, my homeland
is now a place of death.
Kostas Palamas, I call on you, you!
Never was so much light turned to darkness,
so much bravery to fear,
strength to weakness,
so many heroes turned to marble busts.
Birthplace of Digenis and Diakos , my fatherland
now a land of slavery.
Nikos Kazantzakis, I cry out to you!
But if mortals who still speak
Androutsos’ tongue forget
then memory lives behind iron bars and sentry posts
memory lives in the stones
it nests in the yellow leaves
that cover your body, Greece.
Angelos Sikelianos, I call on you, you!
You are the soul of my homeland
polymorphic river
blind with blood
deaf with moans
incapacitated by hatred
and the great love
that jointly rules your soul.
The soul of my country is two handcuffs
squeezed into two rivers
two mountains bound with ropes
on the terrace bench.
The Argive plain swollen from whipping
and Olympus hanging from the mast of the aircraft carrier
hands tied behind its back
until it confesses.
The soul of my homeland is this very seed
that spread roots on the rock.
You are mother, wife, daughter
looking out over the sea and the mountains
and secretly dyeing, with your blood
the red eggs of the Resurrection
fertilized by the times and by men.
If only the Easter of the Greeks
would come to my unhappy land!
Unknown poet, I call on you, you!
Arcadia VI
To the Unknown Poet
Righas Pheraios, I call on you, you!
From Australia to Canada
and from Germany to Tashkent
in prisons, in the mountains and islands
the Greeks are scattered.
Dionysios Solomos, I call on you, you!
Jailed and jailors
beaten and beaters
commanded and commanders
terrorizers and terrorized
occupiers and occupied
divided in two, the Greeks.
Andreas Kalvos, I call on you, you!
Brilliant, the sun marvels,
the mountains and the firs
the shores and the nightingales marvel.
Cradle of beauty and measure, my homeland
is now a place of death.
Kostas Palamas, I call on you, you!
Never was so much light turned to darkness,
so much bravery to fear,
strength to weakness,
so many heroes turned to marble busts.
Birthplace of Digenis and Diakos , my fatherland
now a land of slavery.
Nikos Kazantzakis, I cry out to you!
But if mortals who still speak
Androutsos’ tongue forget
then memory lives behind iron bars and sentry posts
memory lives in the stones
it nests in the yellow leaves
that cover your body, Greece.
Angelos Sikelianos, I call on you, you!
You are the soul of my homeland
polymorphic river
blind with blood
deaf with moans
incapacitated by hatred
and the great love
that jointly rules your soul.
The soul of my country is two handcuffs
squeezed into two rivers
two mountains bound with ropes
on the terrace bench.
The Argive plain swollen from whipping
and Olympus hanging from the mast of the aircraft carrier
hands tied behind its back
until it confesses.
The soul of my homeland is this very seed
that spread roots on the rock.
You are mother, wife, daughter
looking out over the sea and the mountains
and secretly dyeing, with your blood
the red eggs of the Resurrection
fertilized by the times and by men.
If only the Easter of the Greeks
would come to my unhappy land!
Unknown poet, I call on you, you!
Arcadia VI
