|Erifili Christina Tsitsou is 24 years old. She was born and grew up in Greece. She studied English Language and Literature in Aristotle University of Thessaloniki, Greece. She is currently living in Galway, doing her MA in Writing in the National University of Ireland. She mostly writes poetry, both in Greek and English.|
A love song
I am the poet with the wrinkled hands,
pieces of crumpled paper fall from my pockets.
Beer bottles are scattered on the floor,
a veil of cigarette smoke
mystifies my greasy slice of pizza.
You nod your head to the cacophony of music,
effortlessly oozing an air of nonchalance.
I stand and watch silent, observant
of your eyes, your smile, your girlfriend.
Rings of smoke escape your mouth,
tease me to seize them.
I make a move, I grasp them!
I am the poet with the wrinkled heart
that stoops and stutters
and has already missed her chance.
THAT they travelled for years in the Mediterranean.
The sun had branded their bodies; salt had meshed with their blood.
And Aeolus kept playing with the winds.
He says they were all looking for Ithaca.
That they had missed its palaces, its forests, its coasts,
The beautiful women, Eumaeus, Penelope.
That they wanted to lie on their beds again, drink their own wine,
leave Cyclops, Laestrygonians and Phaeacians behind.
He says they were all looking for Ithaca; but that they didn’t know.
They didn’t know they always carried it with them.