How many times it dawned in Greece
before I was born
after my death
how many times the rosy color
and the old woman with the vegetables
in the metro to the sea at Phaliro.
How many times Brallos
kept on being white
in the winter morning
stone different from other stone
first surprise, as I return
from abroad thirsty and
I haven’t discovered the language
of my own things.
How many times
it was dawning in Greece
with the few, the small
the bitter almond tree and the amaranthus
with all the wrong things I learned
with everything I imprudently loved.
I live here and I long
for this same landscape
as if I miss it
with each glance