Mycenae
Give me your hands, give me your hands, give me your hands.
I have seen in the night
the pointing peak of the mountain
I have seen the far side of the plain flooded
with the light of the hiding moon
I have seen, turning my head
the black stones rounded up
and my life like a taut chord
beginning and end
the ultimate moment:
my hands.
Whoever carries the heavy rocks sinks
I have carried these rocks as long as I endured
I have loved these rocks as long as I endured
these rocks, my fate.
Wounded by my own soil
tortured by my own shirt
condemned by my own gods
these rocks.
I know that they don’t know, but I
who have followed the path
from the killer to the victim many a time
from the victim to punishment
from punishment to the next killing,
groping
the inexhaustible power
that night of my return
when the Furies started whistling
on the scarce grass
I saw snakes crossed with vipers
meshed over the evil generation
our fate.
Voices coming out of the rocks out of sleep
even deeper here where the world darkens
memory of anguish rooted in the rhythm
that stomped the earth by feet
forgotten.
Bodies sunk in the foundations
of the other time, naked Eyes
fixated, fixated, to a sign
that no matter how you try, you can’t make out
the soul
that struggles to become your soul.
Not even silence is yours anymore
here where the mill stones have stopped turning
Hellenic Canadian Literature 