The Beginning Of The Third Poem by Niko Tiliopoulos

Bitter the sight is when lit
by the final sunbeam
at the corner of the iris

that is reflected,
countless times,
on the mirror’s crack,
touching the tear
that breaks clumsily
on the earth’s green
for one more time.

And the wet foliage
bents by the weight
of its monotonous sadness.

It stretches and becomes one
with the ground’s grey,
at the sunset
of the autumn’s genesis.

And earth wrinkles and hurts,
as a colourless, cold dust
begins its death dance,
whipping the sky’s belly
that stinks of the winter’s sweat,
falling even deadlier, wetter,
mixing with the tear
that reflects the bitterness of the sight,
like that pebble on the seashore,
whose flame was extinct suddenly
by a third-season wave,
which threw its hope
once again, in the trashes of time,
and sentenced her into slumber
unlit the Sabbath of years.