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Epistle Of The Olive Tree
Of she who sprang from the mind of a god
whose blurred phantom never failed to shimmer,
you would listen for the conquerors' echo.
At your feet Venetian arsenals changed
as their cold embrasure wisdom went blind.
Then came the blooded supplicant whispers
down in the Mosque of the Janissaries,
where the Falschirmjäger bled like Talos.
With dreams that sank in the Roman twilight
you interpret us with the rage you learned.
Chania,
Crete, May, 2000
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