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Ungodly

Adrianne Kalfopoulou

You want to flee, but flee where? The urban concrete elsewhere

does not seethe, does not breathe the scent of carob trees.

Flee, you hear it everywhere, the taxi driver, the farmer at the laiki

tell you, Go! and are puzzled that you are still here,

you who could actually leave with your American passport.

Pack your clothes, leave behind the ruined lives, translate home into

longing, elsewhere you might lift your chin, live unburdened.

The government, the Americans . . . no one cares, the taxi driver complains,

and the farmer at the laiki selling you the sweetest pears, advises

to keep them fresh,  Eat them cold, nearly frozen.

He shakes his head, murmurs Ellada . . . , this ancient land of rock cliffs,

seas that bleed their myths, Greece with its tales of flight

and light, returns and rebirths, keeps teaching the stubborn human lesson

still: the gods won’t save you, neither will you stop wishing it of them.

After all, you are human and they are not.