By Chris Georgallis
Ten to three am, ticked the clock
Time for sleep, not for prose,
Thoughts flapping in the wind, held fast by will, but mostly, letting slip a
page of dreams and desires, which seem to ever ascend away, without even a
What am I ?
Have i lived the life written, or am i writing it as i go?
Deep thoughts searching upward to the throne of my All-knowing , Father!
Sad thoughts , regrets and frustrations, dragging me down to my mother's
feet, where the tears mix with the mud and give me eyes which see again, and
so the cycle continues!
My heart cries to belong.
My life defies this longing, i am set to be a wanderer, forever searching
and seeking to return to her that bore me.
Not a mother of flesh and bone, but the rich soil from which my line was
Britannia, gave me weight, colour and hue, but....
Venus, Aphrodite's Isle, is where my roots find their rest.
My spirit, is not earth bound, but my feet... are of the clay of men, and
the soil calls me, it presses me to return to where it all began.
Cyprus... my land?
Am i wanted?
Do i belong?
Perhaps, London is a closer call ? Full of memories and childhood tales.
Maybe it's Cape Town the "Mother City", this African Queen, to whom i now
She certainly has given me my todays and my tomorrows!
Yet the call of my ancestor's , is further north, deep into the warm middle
sea, where warm currents and white sands mix with the sounds of Byzantine
chants and Grecian and Roman sensibilities.
My journey, continues, my wanderings never cease , but always, i feel that
call to my nation, to my tribe.
Yet where my father took his first breath, and where his mother cradled him
to her breast, in beautiful Rizokarpaso, by Apostolos Andreas's shadow....
I am precluded, not wanted,disallowed,my soil, my family, uprooted and
The invader, argues that he came to save, but all he left was bloodshed and
Our churches,deserted, no liturgy, no chants, only old people, crying their
tears, for a time and a nation, that has long since... past into the arms of
the Turkish advance.
The stories aren't simple, the Greek and the Turk, once sharing coffee and
sweet baklava, now set at odds by the political right, both lamenting their
villages and friends, lost, to the sounds of foreign designs.
My journey continues, the night turns to light, my odyssey unfinished,
My "Ithaca" seems, still a distant dream,
Yet, my prayers and hopes, rise on the dawn of a new day!
(dedicated to my yiayia Sophia, who would not leave her home and died a
prisoner in her own land!)