The klepht knew that the Revolution wouldn’t be easy.
When it started in 1821 no one believed in it.
And yet after months our own changed.
Morea with its Old Man had shown the paradigm.
Surely Thrace wasn’t Peloponnese, he thought, and its liberation wouldn’t be immediate.
The distances with Constantinople changed the data.
But it was the only point of reference.
He looked at his meadow, just like the Old Man did.
He knew that he would suffer once again.
He knew that freedom would require sacrifices.
Only that the resistance had already begun.
And no one could stop it.
He tried to see in the depth of Time.
And there he saw an oak and an olive tree.
Then he thought about the future.
And how things would be after two hundred years.
He smiled again.
He imagined our own nagging.
He imagined their complaints.
Their requests.
Their demands.
Their favors.
So he decided to begin the miracle.
With all of his strength.