The Shape of Boeotia

Here where a desolate glance blows on the stones and the deathless

agavae

Here where the footsteps of time are heard profoundly

Where the enormous clouds unfold sixwinged and golden

Above the metope of heaven

Tell me from where has eternity risen

Tell me what is the bruise that hurts you

And what the destiny of the humble tapeworm

O earth of Boeotia which the wind brightens

What has become of the orchestra of nude hands below the palaces

The mercy that rose like the smoke of holiness

Where are the gates with archaic birds that sang

And the clash that daybroke the terror of the people

When the sun entered like a triumph

When fate writhed on the lance of the heart

NIKOS GATSOS

And the civil strife of birdsong raged

What has become of the immortal March libations

Of Greek traces in the watery grass?

Brows and elbows both were wounded

Time from too much sky rolled crimson

Men advanced

Laden with lament and dream.

Acrid shape! ennobled by the wind

Of a summer storm that leaves its flame-pale traces

On the lines of hills and eagles

On the lined palms of your destiny

What can you face and what can you wear

Dressed in the music of grass and how do you proceed

Amid the sage and the heather

Toward the final close of the arrow?

On this red earth of Boeotia

Amid the desolate march of rock

You shall ignite the golden faggots of fire

You shall uproot the evil crop of memory

You shall leave a bitter soul in the wild mint!

Nikos Gatsos