N. Lygeros
Translated from the Greek by Angeliki Papadopoulou, Evi Charitidou

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You were the first
to scare
with light.

Chaos wanted
to devour you
but you,
even wounded,
you enlightened it
and it got lost
to zero.

Once in Cyclades
the light became marble
and the marble statue
but this did not dare to
conquer the world,
it had its hands crossed
like imprisoned light:
sign of your destiny.

How many do they know that the sea is bright
since the sun was wrecked
by watching your sufferings
and that the taste of saltiness
left by the sea on the lips
is a piece of the sun?

You were one
only one
in the beginning.
And you had a spark
inside the fist:
the fire,
piece of the day inside night.

The gift was big, the suffering was bitter.
Your bond with humanity,
your shackles.
And you first felt
the weight of light.

The hyper- human
the light maker,
the human creator
you became slave
of humanity.

You gave them to drink the light
and changed the existence of humans,
you offered them the life.
But who wanted it,
who saw your sacrifice,
who understood it?

Your myth,
acropolis of intelligence
is one synthesis
that few can hear,
a music of silence.

tied onto the stone sky,
locked in the labyrinth of thought.

Your torch, godly fist,
and glorifying wound,
your body in a godly form
and humane wound.

The revenge of the oblivion.

Humans forgot your light
and found fire only.
They forgot that the light
is the marble of the sun.

Humans burned the light.
Upon the white sand
they spilled pain
and one unique moment
the time broke.

By mutilating the individual,
they hurt humanity
and humanity’s thought
wanted to kill himself
after watching the sky
biting the earth.

The glare of the explosion
showed the darkness,
the way of Hades.

Then the first cry of the dead
was heard,
the victims of fire,
the celestial stigmata.
Then, the first battle began
against the black steel.

Lament of peace.

The threat of the shadow
was spread
over the souls
and closed
the eyelids
of innocence.

The light that you gave us away
by your sacrifice was unique
and we lost it.

Fire wants many to be dead,
in order to live.
It has to be quenched
so that we can see the light again
your light, Prometheus!

In the place of the lost dreams
cypresses do not exist any longer,
neither eucalypts nor pines
only rivers of sorrow
and plaintive words.

But among the ruins of the world
broken beauties are shining.

In the narrow paths of life
on the stone waves
they fell
the elusive steps
of an ancient soul.

A handful of light
upon the body
the freedom of the open sea,
the color of the need.

Fire doesn’t exist, only light does.
You drank all the tears of the world
and with your wound
you made the sea
our land.

And then,
after the death
of the eternity
and the resurrection
of the day
before a hand at an ancient market
cuts it
one Sunday
the world
will bloom again
like a lilac.