- Three Hundred Poem by Georgios Venetopoulos

The wraiths were ringing dead wrought bells
around him passed the shady shapes
of woods in dusk, where red indwells
communion made from ghostly grapes.

He ran amidst the winds and passed
across the side where grapevines grew,
it was her presence that amassed
small leaves and droplets of fog's dew.

Inside the winds' lone strings accord,
his Bell full-face, was dropped along
the streamlets and horizon's board,
untamed his scopes, they don't belong.

The Astral Chords! He knew this debt;
the skies demand and kill and draw,
the darkened paths his thought beget,
rose thorny droplets on his brow.

Persephone shall be his wed,
subsiding dew the mist regales,
the stringing roar that reaches red,
his greatest bride resigns his trails.

Shall be the threading of winds' howls,
her plea arises from the shades,
homecoming queen from astral halls,
he harks the northern swashing blades.

Ablution's her enjoining black
'Enfold me in the rising dawn
enfold your sadness in the dark
with magistral the curtains drawn'.

Acute of wounds she heals and mends
the asphalt of the mists awaits
pristine her bridal thorns amends
while passing through the Hades gates.

Three hundred reasons drew the drapes,
three hundred strings of diligence;
The winds regaled the bride's agape,
his celebration to commence.