It is end of February, maybe November, the peppers pruned, the acacias, the gargle’s, the lilacs and cleaned eucalyptuses from the dead lops.
Big piles from well smell lops were stacked in the rills of streets front in each house, under familiar trees.
Then the place still was full from eucalyptuses, ancient pines and other uncultivated, cause it had lost the loggos completely, mountain did not have completely recede slope, wooded foots, ravines with the cypresses and with oleanders and somewhere white trembling.
Today, doesn’t remind the past. Now everywhere exist irons and cement, fume and ash and various substances; they keep you in the life or to you they create a virtual focus life.
A score of years have already passed
Since your birth in a devious age.
The great door to your heart,
Welcoming friends and enemies,
Enervates the living,
Resurrects the dead.
And thus I, the insignificant dead mortal,
Lacking roses of deepest red hue,
Beg entry into your heart.
Listen… and do not speak to me,
You need say nothing.
I leave myself to my warm tears,
My nightly works,
These insignificant works of mine,
Textured by your return.
This face of yours,
Bringing life to me.
Betrayed by many.
Wounded by many…
For our journey,
And I ask you to come, dancing,
To our common salvation.
Passion no longer frightens me.
You know how I long for the words…
— © Emmanuel G. Mavros “From the child without a trace of sin”