Επιμέλεια: Εύα Πετροπούλου Λιανού
Lies are our staple food.
We feel convulsions
When we occasionally turn to truth
Those who encounter it
End up in hospitals,
Or on the pistoled pier,
If the dose of truth was higher.
Literature is the realm
Of the partial truth
Even history has no history
Of telling the impartial
Unqualified truth does not let us sleep
Try the balm of poetry
Where the wounds are too deep.
Literature introduces us
To the best parts of humanity,
And history to the worst
Yet we love history
Though it always acts like a wamp
Tempts us with its perilous glory
Which bears the death’s stamp.
Our silence can make stones speak,
And also shut whirling tempests
Of verbal extravagance.
History is the warbling noise
Of the river of life
In its glorious as well as meanest flow
Poetry interprets and modifies the show.
