White Birds Of Paradise

by Christos Polydorou

20161211_094622I proceed with the assumption
that I know nothing
in life.

Everything is a mystery to me.
Not much makes sense.
And if it does, it is only for a short while.

I don’t understand.
I can’t capire.
Parla inglese, per amor di Dio.

Gardens we built to the heavens.
And our horses so winged and swan unafraid.

Our tears were always rivers,
and when we swam, Boy, did we.

All I can know is a blank slate.
This is a blessing.
Everything erased, rewound, and begun again.

If you see Socrates and Plato
up there,
tell them I am trying.

It’s a start.

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