Clay Faces

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To the dead poet of obscurity

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(In honor of the dead unpublished poet)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Your unpublished poems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 ,

                  shell of my heart.”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(In honor of the dead unpublished poet)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Your unpublished poems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 ,

shell of my heart."
Last Updated on Monday, 28 March 2011 21:14

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