The light is still here, grandfather
in the stones of Kastoria, of Yanninna
A man from these black and green hills
drove us for a fee through mountains
He could have been uncle Victor or Maurice
And he listens well to the singing of trees.
"Tell the people of Amerika that Kastoria
is more beautiful than all of Yanninna"
A cross on the front mirror strikes his cheek
every time he pitches forward in the old cab.
With my eyes closed I see him, hear the cross,
I see his Bishop hiding our Holy Books in a crypt
In this city behind all wals a boy waits,
no one comes, not even to the lake, nothing,
only the daily half-light of the market,
old men sipping coffee in early morning
Our driver takes us to the village of Edessa,
he sees the boys too, he has always seen -
and like Zorba; he is helpless, he shrugs
curses diseased vines above us twisting feebly -
But, he says he knows enough good men and women
to make wondrous bones for these Greek roses.