My house, distant of an arrow’s blow from Khirokitia, <br />same with the house of ancestors of same soil, encloses <br />my centuries; in nights turns its cylindrical mouth to stars. <br /> <br />I bury my parents beneath the floor, protecting them, <br />sleepless I fetch for them wools, seeds, the grater. <br />sitting for hours I hear them bringing me in our future, <br />the pencil-makers welcoming Minoans and Achaeans: <br />Thirondae Kerastias, Meonis, Impataon. Here is Ariadne, <br />dropping us the tread to pass and undo our Minotaur. <br /> <br />Our women embroidered our history onto their laces, <br />on meandros and rivers of laces, I see the fate and fight. <br />It’s a win not a loss that you, Da Vinci, brought our art* <br />to Milano; you saved it for the world, through centuries. <br /> <br />The thread of our tradition has arrived to your place, <br />it leads the bull and Europe to you, Saxon youngsters. <br />The tread starts from inside, beneath our homes, talks <br />home language: do good-and-fine to have a worthy life. <br /> <br />If logic rarely misleads me, my conscience never does: <br />the path of the thread, from drama to catharsis, is lit <br />by a torch of celestial flame of our ancestor-selves. <br /> <br />Where do you come from, Khirokitia and your thread? <br />What’s your will, my Culture, in the course of Time? <br /> <br /> <br /> <br />© JosephJosephides<br /><br />Joseph S. Josephides<br /><br />http://www.poemhunter.com/poem/the-thread-of-khirokitia/
