‘The seventeen reminds me of my Muse
In cosmopolitan Athens’ –
The poet said –
And felt gently tugged by her
At an intimate moment of waking-up.
‘Once a great event of a perfect communicative
Game turned a great love
Impossible to know at the start
Into the blue-violet mist of the city
Around the Filothei Hill
Last visited with my Great Muse
On a day filled with an overflow of
Still emotions grip his heart and throat
But tears won’t come any longer
To his eyes
All the while in the country of
Africa at the South
He had cried into the garden of his dreams
That brought frustration to his poetry and
Art: Seventeen Songs for ANA.
So then, the poet mused –
‘Is this my work cut out for me?
That my Muse had intended before she
Made the giant irreversible step into the