The poet writes history

                                                 Στον ποιητή Λόρδο Βύρωνα
                                                 που η καρδιά του είναι θαμμένη μέσα στην πέτρα του Μεσολογγιού 

 

Nobody knew his heart
For two centuries it cries inside the stone
and upon it Time carves the story of the world
the letters fading
getting angrier
And in the nights of desolate moonlight
comes the Rider
his eyes gusts of wind

he comes with a pen in hand
to write the poem he could not complete
but the blood is fresh

Where are you Sons of Roumeli?
Did you also name Freedom your hotels?

I want to reach the glade
to walk with you
where the Memory is still sacred
iluminating forests and mountains at nights
When the dead walk alone
standing godforsaken clutching their silver
because their weapons are sleeping in the museums
and wisper words of a freedom
that has faded over time.

I cannot bare this History
with the shameful coin in hand
I cannot bare History written with coin
I am the Poet
I gave my heart to the Idea
and heart is what I seek

Where are you brothers in arms of Roumeli and Morias
I want to walk with you
to the highest peaks
for the whole world to witness
that the Souls grew taller with time
that they are not dead damn it
we never died
And maybe it is time we rewrite History
from the beginning.

And so the Poet alone
with his bare hand against the times
is the truth outside of History
where only the Souls are vigilant
Proud.

And if you happen to be on a moonlit night
to the land of Roumeli
you can hear footsteps and incoherent words
the way that only the Poet
the tongue of mountains and gods
the tongue of lightning
and of blood can speak
of the truth left outside of mortals' time

Because the Poet writes the story of the world

Μάης 2019

Τροποποίηση