In midday, an ancient breeze across the Byzantine Sea
Enters my bedroom
And soothes my burning skin.
Mother was right.
To be buried by the sea wind
Keeps spirits involved with life.
The whistling of pine trees
Give the dead their secrets.
Even from the grave comes vengeance
In gossips of million lying possibilities.
Yet the town wears blue and white
So Greek that it is hardly mythical.
Who would remember the company?
Crusades, Mongols, Turks, Romans,
Italians, Germans, Scottish, British, Americans,
All for a sense of this endless ancient breeze.
A fig with its bleeding heart
Soothes my craving for a piece of land and history.
No one is forgotten here.
Maria Kranidis
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