Clay Faces

To the dead poet of obscurity

(In honor of the dead unpublished poet)

Well done!
You have won!
You should not feel sorry.
Your unpublished poems
-always remember-
have not been buried,
haven’t bent
under the strength of time.
Like gold
inside the soil
they remain,
they never melt.
They may be late
but they will be given
to their people
someday,
to offer their sweet,
eternal essence.

 
Victory 

Short
is the life of victory.
Stuck
on the mud of the mistakes,
on the mud of the tarmac.

        Shell of my heart 

                  My thought fluttered

                  and flew to the beauties

                  of the plain, the mountain,

                  swam in beaches

                  and filled with freshness,

                  traveled and quenched

                  with hope for tomorrow,

                  swooned with the beauty

                  of the Greek village,

                  danced ceaselessly,

                  revived from the white

                  that   carefreely played

                  with the light blue,

                  passed from alleys,

                  went to cobbled roads,

                  listened to the waves,

                  felt warm in the sun,

                  rolled in the sand

                  that was bathing in the light,

                  photographed a cloud

                  on a roe deer,

                  and shouted:

                  “My Greece ,