(long Poem :) Questions Forever Dancing With Their Answers Poem by Christos R. Tsiailis

The sorrow, all that’s been lost, the gone.
What about perdition, absence,
the killed, the unborn?
The racism, hunger or malnutrition,
the abuse, the rapes and the silence.
An Unfair Conviction?
Yes, the phobia or the others lost in utopia.
The anisotopia.
And the darkness of the mind,
in the caves unwanted light?
The cry of the cuckoo? The laughter of the owl?
Yes, the sadness and the salty water drunk.
You and a crack.
Locusts or drought?
Netted dead fish or a mazut blast?
Choose.
In Crete the cracked marble tombs
of ten thousand unidentified defeated souls,
And the rotten key for Count MonteChristo’s chains
forgotten in the crypt?
Oh you fools, release him!
The mourning of the morons.
Oblivion or selective memory?
The hatred or the envy?
The pause between the words, unfinished sighs.
The unrelieved.
Follow my step in the Ansero Flamenco with eight earthen devils.
---
It could have been replaced,
all could have been found,
might have been resurrected,
Shouldn’t it have been avoided,
ought to have been here?
They could have been saved, brought.
Must it be abandoned?
Can it be reduced, may it be fought?
That shall be restrained;
they could have all been shouted out at.
It would be seen.
Could it be made lighter,
could they build something?
It would be balanced.
It could be lit, they could have been veiled.
Could it have been rephrased?
It shouldn’t be misunderstood.
It could have been smoothened
and it might have been spat,
Perhaps You without a crack?
They should have been left
to dance with the winds of rain,
they may be reincarnated if it’s burned somehow.
Could have they been preserved?
It might as well be shined and then spotted,
must it be left untouched?
It must have been a misunderstanding;
it must have been self-catastrophic,
Will it be narrowed, will they be completed?
They must be calmed.
Follow my step in the Ansero Flamenco with eight earthen devils.
---
All with mutual efforts.
With a white rose on a black suit?
Yes, a third parent in a mind,
a personal hide-out for the ten-minute daily escape,
With selective deafness, with unrestrained love?
That’s right, all in a dropp of honey stirred in tap water.
Every change following the path
of baby steps in the forest.
Though it has expired,
the chocolate house is not a myth, ever uneaten.
Should I go?
Go, with the mourning of the hurt.
The care of the blind,
or the touch of the mute?

(Nicosia,7/5/07)