ἔκλαιεν

It’s black (cough!),

The taste of smoke has made its home upon my tongue

Yet you can still see, so can I.

What beauty have we in this day!

This is a house of mirrors, simply put

And with no lack of exigency will I find my way out

I can’t say that I mind; I don’t wish to leave

Every way looks like the right way –they all look the same, to me

The taste is strange –sobering, disheartening, a pestering pestilence

We hasten to debase the taste of smoke that together, we share

It makes the palate dry – as if one were parched

I recognize the smell, but I can’t remember where

The air is hot, and my eyes are burning

This will be intolerable soon.

I DON’T CARE!

I don't live or die by what you scribble!

You’ve shown me the rubble, you say that it’s mine,

You’ve shown me the rubble, I’ll tell you it’s yours!

Lies, they’re all lies!

(cough!) I stumble, the feeling returns

Verily, merrily , I say, what wonder is there in this day!

Smoke! –now I remember; no matter though,

Never again shall it abate my halcyon jubilee!

A stroll down this hallway evokes a bizarre sentiment,

Looking around, mirrors surround me,

The air seems crisp, and yet,

The taste of smoke remains on my tongue

-It always ruins the days worth dying for.

The candid man, speaking to me in smoke –as always.

The feeling is awful –swaggering, staggering; I’ll make it, I swear to you!

Sleeping sunrise to sunset, still with no rest

The air is hot, and my eyes are burning,

I look to my left, then to my right and what do I see?

Reflections of smoke pouring out of me.

The eye is a lamp, and the tongue is a fire,

How the lamp gives fuel to the fire!

Mirrors in all directions telling me the same story,

A story of darkness –and how great is the darkness!

I sing for joy, my requiem aeternam deo

My soul rejoices! (cough!)

Yet, my heart cries out, has it not become colder?

Is not the night continually closing in upon us?

Come one! Come all to this strident masquerade!

This mask is but a casque designed for the heart of man,

For you, for me, for everyone, we’ll be near, here,

To the truth that you and your forefathers gave reproof.

I am no prophet –and here’s no great matter;

But lord knows I have a gut –and a clever one indeed,

I’ve seen the eternal Footman hold my coat, and snicker,

Still my instinct tells me it's simply marvelous,

Isn’t it obvious to us all?

My soul rejoices!

Then he says to me, candidly, mournfully,

“That’s not it at all,

That’s not what I meant, at all.”

- Στεφανος Άρρις