ELAS

[constantine]

Our necks were not enough
they sought to cut the throat of time itself,
to sever the spirit from the body
and the children from their youth,
in a winter that had no ending
and a day that became an old man
who, sustained by his own momentum,
descends into his grave, as if
he had lived there all his life

and the waves crashed, propelled
and fueled by storms beyond the horizon
in the ocean of another god, deaf
to our prayers and lamentations,
his language not our own, and though
we are all men, we were not his men,
and thus the dirge continues
the musicians may change, but...
as the wise klephti understood

I saw officers dine at the cafe
I saw hunger replace a girl's eyes
desperation consumed her fear
as if it was a delicate morsel
and he took her skeletal wrist
and broke it like a pencil between his fingers
and the soldiers were quite impressed
as if it were a grand feat of prestidigitation
instead of the darkest blasphemy

the hero doesn't wear a uniform
nor does he bristle with arms,
he lives within his inadequacy
as he struggles for air to breathe
and though he is rooted out like vermin,
it is the vermin who are our ancestors
and to their interests he remains true,
to live and propagate as they will
while avoiding the hunter's snare

by our hands, and upon our shoulders
the great stones were raised,
the white marble that speaks through time
now adorns the halls of the Teuton,
they have absconded with our sister
and replaced her with an iron pole,
still they complain of the burden
that is their destiny to endure,
an Atlas unto themselves

we took to the northern mountains,
it was there that we made our stand
pursued by the products of their industry
the hell of mechanical design
the village they took as hostage
murdered as if putting on a hat,
we remember those who have fallen
though we have never found the grave
they are buried within our hearts

when living is a criminal activity,
and famine sleeps in your bed
the day, another shade of darkness
the night is a sunless sky
survival gives birth to the epic
to the lyrics sung in the tavern
and the hasty scrawl of the poet
who wonders if he will be able,
who wonders if the shoes will fit

[hester_prynne]

This would be perfect for the radio show, with the right background music.
Powerful Constantinople!
H