POEM BY ANTONIS FOSTIERIS
UNSUSCEPTIBLE TO IMMORTALITY
Three hours are enough to write a beautiful poem
yet thirty years aren’t enough to write a poem
even if you desire it a lot and you’re willing to sacrifice for it.
I understand spring is a matter of routine for nature
that hates pneuma and blackens the imperishable.
Think carefully: every form of immortality stands opposite
the concept of being. Every opposition
will vanish under the heel of time
that straddles over it with soles made of granite.
Opening the suspicion of the present
the brushwood of events into the fire of the sun up to the sky
means the past of the future
or better the future of a different past
since, as far as I know, there’s no recipe
to make a moment last.
we’ve truly been, how prodigal
in our avarice. Who would believe
that we’ve spent the little eternity that belongs to us
lost in the desert of words. We’ve seeded and waited
for the new fruit to sprout from the seed
the ripened fruit to rot.
Truly how empty-handed
how unsusceptible to immortality mortals are.