Plaka of my Soul

Have I returned to the
Plaka of my soul
or is the road ahead
just an illusion?
The waiter who waves
his hand at me already
from a distance
seems to have acknowledged
me as always
as if I’d be her yesterday.
Yesterday when I’d brought
Anna here and sat with her
at the Café around the corner.
She a marked woman in need
of fresh air
not conditioned to the August
heat.
August of my heart
cooled down by northern pastures
and dark green woods.
Anna love of my heart
tragedy that reminds of Orpheus.
Do I still have to descend to the
depths below
free her from the grip of a
relentless iron-clad death?

zoltanzelan
ZJG-Poetry’15

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