POEM BY ANTONIS FOSTIERIS
THE THOUGHT BELOGS TO MOURNING
I re-desert the silence of my soul
and I re-enter into the thunderous lithography
of nothing (stone cylinders grind syllables
that we won’t miss the eloquent poem) black bread
made of black flour — has anyone ever thought
why when typing the words always turn
black?
What genetic inclination decided
that every thought belongs to mourning? What instinct
slaps the fragrant boys of symbolism
who shockingly let the obvious to escape them?
Often I end up sensitive
pretending to be emotional
and now with what hands can you kneed bread
with what courage can you finish the poem?
Libros Libertad 