sending prayers to those victims and their families...peace!
No one knows how things come in his way.
He died today at ten past three,
the final tick of the soccer match.
Shepherds complained of a winter wind,
the butcher laid down his lamb.
Some mothers say he was a poet,
he wrote stunning ones on rare paper
about-you see, almost everything, silver or gold,
the poems that were eloquently foreign.
Flies walk against the windowpane.
Dogs bark, restless themselves
that the Aegean mocks mourners
gathered in his room.
Nobody knows how he passed away
or why-he always gets up at 7 o'clock,
he occupied no relatives or criminals way
of throw himself against the rock.
Fishermen had their boats shine
along the shore against the Peloponnese,
In Montana, women are certain
Greece tease herself, not the Turks.