No Poem Is the Only Poem. No Story Is the Only Story. No Kings.
Since then, thirteen years have passed, and even though we hadn’t been in any contact during that period, I never completely erased Despina from my memory. Her face and body cropped up in my head during many sleepless nights and gradually she became my most precious phantasy, helping me to survive my gloomy days. I couldn’t shake off the divine reminisces of the first few weeks with her and until today, I still think of this brief time stretch as the best of my life.
Entangled leaves and roots fighting for existence as if they somehow knew beyond what they experience significance ends.
the iron gate creaks in the dark dawn breeze and I hear, ‘Ma is nowhere. Daddy, ma is nowhere.’
Mama never told me how to do anything. She modeled. She said if I was anything like her, I didn’t need anyone to tell me what to do, because when that happened with her—and people were always telling her what to do—she did the opposite.
April 7th, 12:10 am.
Soon the water is at your throat. Now the cool of the water has replaced the warmth of the summer day. A few more steps and you are under. But you can breathe. There is no fear within you as you walk forward and leave behind the steps of the rampart and eventually feel your feet sink into the mud. You can see the waters flowing all around you, and you are able to see what the river brought with it over the centuries. You see barges of grapes from upstream, heading south where they will be churned into wine. You see grain from northern Europe, passing through Hungary, headed for parts south, for larger ships awaiting cargo in the Black Sea.