Thursday, July 31, 2008

Said George

A little piece of Paradise
Beneath the Cretan sun.
To fattened eyes, a little slice
Of how things once were done.
But oh that wind!
That howling wind
That whistled down the gorge,
Like Zeus’s choice
And vengeful voice
‘Gainst those who’ve sinned,
Said George.

Tavernas lounging on the beach
And gazing o’er the bay.
How much their languidness can teach
The tourist of today!
But oh that breeze!
That rampant breeze
That whistled down the gorge,
Like banshee shrieks
From limestone peaks
To basking seas,
Said George.

The little winding thoroughfares,
The pots of homemade jam,
The whistling as the chef prepares
A kleftika of lamb.
But oh that gale!
That constant gale
That whistled down the gorge,
Like waves that pound
The stony ground
And make gods quail,
Said George.

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