{"id":146,"date":"2018-12-21T20:07:21","date_gmt":"2018-12-21T20:07:21","guid":{"rendered":"http:\/\/giorgosmoleskis.com.cy\/?page_id=146"},"modified":"2023-03-26T14:24:56","modified_gmt":"2023-03-26T12:24:56","slug":"poems","status":"publish","type":"page","link":"http:\/\/giorgosmoleskis.com.cy\/en\/poems\/","title":{"rendered":"Poems"},"content":{"rendered":"
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POEMS<\/h2>\n
<\/dl>\n<\/div>\n
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FROM THE COLLECTION\u00a0FROM THE MINIMUM<\/em>, 2001<\/h4>\n

 <\/p>\n

\"\"<\/p>\n

UNFADING ROSES<\/strong><\/p>\n

Only the spirit gives birth to unfading roses
\nand only art creates perfection.
\nWith all the pluses and minuses of history
\nand of the soul of man
\nthe verses of Homer,
\nthe statues of Michelangelo
\nand the grey of Theotokopoulos continually expand.<\/p>\n

Only things useless in the material world
\ncan stay the same and change
\naccording to their position and according to time,
\nwith the agony of the soul and the projection of the mind,
\naccepting only addition and multiplication.<\/p>\n

Often, all else falls into the minus
\nand into division, becoming stages of transition
\nfor the orchestration of the crime.<\/p>\n

If there is hope that, at the end, something will last,
\nthat is the soul and the otherwise useless things
\nthat are her bread, her water, and her honey.<\/p>\n

2001<\/p>\n

Translated by Irena Ioannides<\/p>\n

 <\/p>\n

 <\/p>\n

THE RIVER OF HERACLETUS<\/strong><\/p>\n

Three thousand years now, the river of Heraclitus flows
\nwith the wisest maxim of all time
\nand, more and more, we wish to enter it a second time.
\nThe mind knows and the dream doubts,
\nsince, time and again, everything takes place inside it.<\/p>\n

Yet, twice you shall never meet a woman you have loved
\nand even if you do,
\nthe town you have left, twice you shall never find.<\/p>\n

The years do not depart empty-handed. Laden as they are,
\none by one, they fall and they shatter
\nin a way that can never be mended.<\/p>\n

Only dream returns to what cannot be turned back
\nand only poetry mends has been shattered<\/p>\n

Translated by Irena Ioannides<\/p>\n

 <\/p>\n

 <\/p>\n

ROME<\/strong><\/p>\n

As I walk, I feel my body elongating
\nlike the caper\u2019s root, arriving at subterranean currents.
\nMy name stretches to the root of the tongue,
\nI fall whole in the molten lava of history
\nthat never runs cold.<\/p>\n

At times, I think that I was with the gladiators
\nat times, thrown in the arena with the slaves
\nbut on the bleachers, with the roaring crowd, I have never been
\nand over governors, I have always preferred poets.<\/p>\n

The day would have give birth at once, to great deeds and great crimes
\nand all of it, together, in parallel, and at the same time,
\nshouts at the centuries from the Colosseum\u2019s tiers.<\/p>\n

Hung like a cloth on the line, the soul of man
\ncollects light in some places, in other places darkness.
\nA sundry basket of races, History
\nadvances with great additions and great subtractions.<\/p>\n

Translated by Irena Ioannides<\/p>\n

 <\/p>\n

 <\/p>\n

SANTA SEVERINA<\/strong><\/p>\n

A room of the Middle Ages, in an ancient castle
\nAn internment space for bishops and laymen,
\nit now hosted a music concert.<\/p>\n

The tombs, enclosing whatever was left from their old inhabitants,
\nstare open, covered with transparent glass
\non which the audience are seated.
\nNotes from Bach, solo violin, and instrumentals
\nfill the place up and it seems it is ready to soar.<\/p>\n

Long was the journey of the wood
\nuntil the time it was transformed into a violin
\nand longer that of man until he was able
\nto transform his soul into such sounds.<\/p>\n

We were living through a miracle
\nAs, with all those long dead people beneath our feet,
\nstaring hopelessly from a time ten centuries ago,
\nit would have been difficult, but for that music,
\nto believe in resurrection.<\/p>\n

2001<\/p>\n

Translated by Lucy Maroulleti<\/p>\n

 <\/p>\n

 <\/p>\n

I AM A CANDLE<\/strong><\/p>\n

I am a candle
\nFor a moment, I was set alight
\nby the passion of love,
\nwhich was inserted in time,
\nI am fed and I am worn
\nby the wind of life.<\/p>\n

I burn and I shed light,
\nI burn and I am worn
\nevery day
\nmoving into the darkness
\nthat always moves and shifts
\nand never runs out.<\/p>\n

But where does this aura end up?
\nWhere is it invested?
\nwhat comes of the mundane?<\/p>\n

And is it enough?<\/p>\n

2001<\/p>\n

Translated by Irena Ioannides<\/p>\n

 <\/p>\n

\"\"<\/p>\n

OUR HOMELAND IS SMALL<\/strong><\/p>\n

Our homeland is a small one, surrounded by the sea
\nyou cannot see the boundaries of the rest of the world.
\nThe rains start coming and they are suddenly gone
\nand we are left dry and thirsty.
\nThe winds blow from all around us
\nbut we never pick a correct direction.<\/p>\n

Our homeland is a small one and it becomes dangerously smaller
\nwe steady ourselves for a short while and then, we again slip down.
\nFrightened we look more back to the past than to the future,
\nunearthing forgotten saints and heroes.<\/p>\n

The homeland diminishes and the heroes multiply,
\nour souls are impoverished and the saints multiply.<\/p>\n

What benefit have they been to us
\nthat we invoke those who have already perished!<\/p>\n

The heroes have become armies killing the man inside us,
\nthe saints have become armies killing the God inside us!<\/p>\n

Freedom! Freedom!
\nFrom where will you come to liberate us!<\/p>\n

2001<\/p>\n

Translated by Lucy Maroulleti<\/p>\n

 <\/p>\n

 <\/p>\n

FROM THE COLLECTION\u00a0THE WATER OF MEMORY<\/em>, 1988<\/h4>\n

 <\/p>\n

\"\"
\nCover:<\/strong>\u00a0Name Surname<\/p>\n

AWAITING RAIN<\/strong><\/p>\n

Awaiting rain. Years we wait
\nstaring at the empty sky.
\nThe world covered by dust,
\nleaves stripped of color.
\nAn infertile womb, the earth awaits orgasm.
\nEven the sun needs washing.<\/p>\n

This drought has settled in our souls
\nlike the dust that covers ancient stones
\nthat burn, unwashed in the sun.
\nEven our souls have become
\nancient mosaics covered by dust.<\/p>\n

We await the rain, to cleanse us,
\nto regain our color,
\nthe shine trapped inside us,
\nthe light
\nborn of our stones and earth.<\/p>\n

1998<\/p>\n

Translated by Irena Ioannides<\/p>\n

 <\/p>\n

 <\/p>\n

NAKED WONDERING SOUL<\/strong><\/p>\n

When the soul leaves the body
\nstealing away like a lover betrayed
\nwishing to never return
\nto the home that held her
\nbound to things
\nand to the four dimensions.<\/p>\n

She wanders naked as a butterfly
\nblossom to blossom
\nroaming the streets,
\nrivers and seas
\nfalling in love with the world once more,
\nsinging, rebelling\u2026<\/p>\n

She leaves the body to the light\u2019s embrace
\nto the water and the earth
\nmoving silently into the rain
\nto connect with the eternal music of the universe,
\nfrom where there is no return.<\/p>\n

She wishes to return
\nwhere she first came to know light and joy,
\nto all she had experienced
\nto become all this
\nunited in one infinite moment,
\nin one existence.
\nAnd to continue to be here
\nspeechless,
\ninvisible,
\nmystical
\nwith no right to vote or intercept
\nbut always,
\ninside everything
\na place,
\na tear,
\na smile.<\/p>\n

1998<\/p>\n

Translated by Irena Ioannides<\/p>\n

 <\/p>\n

 <\/p>\n

MIDDAY<\/strong><\/p>\n

An explosive body, naked like lighting
\nbolts into the city.
\nRushes from the sky like a trigger
\nof an explosive mechanism, armed,
\nsetting fires, taking over
\nanyone who roams with his soul exposed.<\/p>\n

And I with the poet\u00b4s words alone
\nstretch over the world like a rope,
\nbecome a chord that resonates
\nupon the touch of every sun ray,
\nupon the touch of every wind and leaf.<\/p>\n

I dress in the colors of the spectrum,
\nshatter to pieces
\narches, squares, triangles\u2026
\nI appear suddenly from the sky,
\nborn of water and earth
\nand follow, but how can I reach you
\neternal body, the world\u00b4s secret soul,
\nsoul of mine!<\/p>\n

A trigger in tension you are
\nfired continually
\nby a naked body that calls you,
\nby an explosive body, a body like lighting
\nthat bolts
\nbrightest among lights
\nreaching the world\u00b4s arcane essence
\nthere
\nwhere endlessly,
\namorously,
\nlife is born.<\/p>\n

1998<\/p>\n

Translated by Irena Ioannides<\/p>\n

 <\/p>\n

 <\/p>\n

THE WATER OF MEMORY<\/strong><\/p>\n

Unfulfilled our plans for Sunday excursions.
\nWe leave always for the south
\nreturn to a Nicosia in inertia
\nthat gazes at Pentadaktylos
\nin the violet of the twilight hour\u2026<\/p>\n

And as I look at you and you at me,
\nPentadaktylos,
\nI wander amidst your peaks
\nin my own fairy tale.
\nI cross to the opposite bank and sink
\nin other times,
\nin days when the sea blossomed with smiles,
\nin other tragedies,
\nin other outbursts\u2026<\/p>\n

And to the children that always ask about this wall
\nI tell a story
\nabout the good, about the bad
\nand as always in fairy tales,
\ngood triumphs over all,
\nthe hero enters the palace,
\nor,
\nfetches at the last minute
\nthe water of immortality and the water of memory.<\/p>\n

1998<\/p>\n

Translated by Irena Ioannides<\/p>\n

 <\/p>\n

 <\/p>\n

FIGURES OF ABSENCE<\/strong><\/p>\n

Shapes of bodies that once lived,
\nfigures that existed upon the warmth of touch,
\nupon the tastefulness of style,
\nfollow us
\nwanting to utter their own words.<\/p>\n

Empty shells upon the sea bed, empty conches,
\nempty armor, helmets, vestments
\nin shapes that once held
\nliving bodies
\nand walked the cycle of life with them.
\nUrns in shapes molded by naked hands,
\nin shapes that held wine and oil
\noften repeating the fruitful womb
\nand the cross of man.<\/p>\n

Does it all remain, gestures of a memory that recurs,
\nvessels of souls that passed and are now where?
\nThe same question repeating itself!
\nWhat is really ours of all we embody,
\nof all we carry inside
\nto place at the feet of time
\nwho wants us simply his registrars
\nso that he may continue his journey through the ages!<\/p>\n

We walk the road
\nporters and creators
\nof a singular value
\nin the world\u00b4s decay..<\/p>\n

1998<\/p>\n

Translated by Irena Ioannides<\/p>\n

 <\/p>\n

 <\/p>\n

A BLIND SPEAKER AT A MEETING FOR PEACE<\/strong><\/p>\n

A blind speaker rose to the podium
\nopened his manuscript
\nbegan to talk, touching words one by one
\nwith his fingers. A Turk
\nspeaking Greek. His words
\nGreek and Turkish together
\nflew over frontiers like birds
\nwhose nationality cannot be determined.<\/p>\n

And as he spoke, palpating words with his fingers
\nreleasing them to the air
\nmore and more he resembled a potter
\nwho molded birds, animals, men
\nwho molded a round earth, a unified country,
\nwithout sectors of death, a dove of peace\u2026
\nhe molded them in his fingers one by one,
\nbreathed life in them and released them
\nto fly around the hall,
\nsearching for windows, for open doors
\nthrough which to soar out into the world<\/p>\n

1998<\/p>\n

Translated by Irena Ioannides<\/p>\n

 <\/p>\n

 <\/p>\n

FROM THE COLLECTION\u00a0THE HOUSE END TIME<\/em>, 1990<\/h4>\n

 <\/p>\n

\"\"<\/p>\n

OPTIMISM<\/strong><\/p>\n

You dig areas like old neighborhoods
\nand you find one building beneath another\u00b4s foundations \u2014
\nconfigurations which are repeated and progress
\nAnd you go back many centuries,
\nyou find graves with mutilated bones
\npierced skulls, burnt cities.
\nYour find marble carved in your form
\nand the word of wisdom from centuries old speaks to you
\nabout things you carry inside you.
\nLike a meter you place it on the earth
\nand you travel around it around the surface,
\nMany centuries, pondering
\nthat journey which develops, stops,
\nfind its equilibrium, turns back
\nand progresses forward again\u2026<\/p>\n

Otherwise there is no reason for it to exist.
\nOtherwise we would have no reason to exist.<\/p>\n

1990<\/p>\n

Translated by Lisa Socrates<\/p>\n

 <\/p>\n

 <\/p>\n

MEMORIES FROM THE PATERNAL HOME<\/strong><\/p>\n

From now on so many things have changed,
\nthe optical signs are transposed,
\nthe perspectives have been modified.
\nDoes the house exist or not exist,
\nhas it withstood the rains of last winter or has it yielded?<\/p>\n

It stirs like a curtain in the memory and it refracts
\nall that series of events:
\nwhen and who went in and left,
\nwhen and in what order where the children born,
\nwhen Death passed\u2026<\/p>\n

What always remains and torments me the most
\nis the difficulty with which they all, everyone grew up.
\nin the winter the air blew from the holes in the doors
\nand the windows,
\nthe rain crept in, the thunder and lightning from the holes.
\nWe closed them, sometimes with rags and sometimes with paper.
\nThe cold also crept in and froze our bones
\ncontinuing into our sleep.<\/p>\n

Sometimes on such evenings the cries and screams
\ncirculated in the house like phantoms.
\nOur hate exchanged places with pity:
\nmother-father, father-mother\u2026 Who is culpable?
\nWith God\u2019s persistent denial, his absence.<\/p>\n

In the summers the land would dry up and would crack like our body.
\nEverything burnt: the stones under the naked feet,
\nthe trees, the earth, the water.
\nWhatever insisted on growing dragged slowly,
\nlike a snake in a ploughed field.<\/p>\n

Time itself dragged slowly
\nand did not intend to hurry so
\nwe could grow, strengthen,
\nfor our soul to strengthen
\nand to embark on the road of our dreams.<\/p>\n

1990<\/p>\n

Translated by Lisa Socrates<\/p>\n

 <\/p>\n

\"\"<\/p>\n

THE REFUGEES\u00b4 VALUABLE LOAD<\/strong><\/p>\n

Life fragmented from the roots returns to the root
\nlike the soul above the dead body, searching
\nthe configuration of its perfections, the figure which it was give to exist.<\/p>\n

This life carries a load for centuries and where should it repose
\nwhen the blood dries, when the color fades,
\nthe heat which oscillated and recalled the first steps on the ground,
\nthe first footsteps on the water, on the stones
\nwith configurations which recall all those crossings and the postures
\nwhich took the body maturing. Without all these
\nthe heritage cannot last, the image dries in the memory,
\nwe step not knowing were we step, we go on blindly.
\nThe dead body passes quickly to the state of decomposition,
\nit dissolves in water and dust, it flows with the rivers
\nand the soul circulates amongst configurations and forms which it cannot recognize.<\/p>\n

Now we know very well that all those who fell into the ships
\neither left in haste with a bundle on the shoulder
\nthe only wealth they took with them was the children
\nthose who cried under the paternal roof,
\nwho saw the light climb down from the window
\nand spread to their small beds,
\nwho climbed up to to the high trees
\nsearching for the mature bud. Those children
\nwho first heard the fairy tale on the shores of their home
\nrecognizing the first configuration of the stars.<\/p>\n

The greatest wealth and most palpable hope
\nto live more, to resist more
\nto continue to exist
\nand to exist hoping,
\nit was those children.<\/p>\n

1990<\/p>\n

Translated by Lisa Socrates<\/p>\n

 <\/p>\n

 <\/p>\n

ELENI\u2019S DREAM<\/strong><\/p>\n

\u201cWhy are you crying Eleni?\u201d
\n\u201cThey have hung my gifts high and I cannot reach them.
\nThe rabbit brought the ladder. But the wicked man
\ncame and I was frightened\u201d.
\n\u201cWhat did the wicked man look like?\u201d
\n\u201cI didn\u2019t see him. I closed the door.\u201d<\/p>\n

(Elemi\u2019s dialogue with her mother)<\/p>\n

Go to sleep. The black butterfly came
\nand entered from the open window
\nshe spread her velvet wings
\nand covered all the world.
\nwhatever she wants now to exist
\nis now written in a golden light,
\nin her open wings\u2026<\/p>\n

Go to sleep. Al the gifts are yours.
\nHowever high they hang them, you will reach them,
\nonly don\u2019t be afraid. We are all with you.
\nLook, the rabbit comes out of its hole,
\nthe wolf is coming from its wood,
\nthe fox climbs down from its fence,
\neven that bird, the magpie
\nwhich bothered you in your mouth
\nwhen your teeth were growing
\njumps from the bare branch and is coming\u2026<\/p>\n

All the gifts are yours.
\nDon\u2019t cry. Climb, climb the stairs
\nand when you see the wicked man
\nclose the door.<\/p>\n

1990<\/p>\n

Translated by Lisa Socrates<\/p>\n

 <\/p>\n

 <\/p>\n

FROM THE COLLECTION\u00a0THE CISTERN OF LOVES<\/em>, 1987<\/h4>\n

 <\/p>\n

\"\"<\/p>\n

METAMORPHOSIS<\/strong><\/p>\n

She stood barefooted at the water\u2019s edge,
\na young girl, wrapped in the innocence
\nof her twelve years.
\nThe adolescents teased her,
\nwithout even knowing why,
\nwounding her. And she smiled
\nat the sea, the sun and the day.<\/p>\n

The day spread out long before her,
\nholding drops of the morning fog
\nand the dawn\u2019s aromas.
\nLife, also spread out long before her
\njust starting to collect
\nthe fluff from her body\u2026<\/p>\n

Yet all these things lasted so little,
\nwhen she just started to undress. When
\nshe undressed, revealing a mature body,
\na woman\u2019s body, completely,
\na perfect figure-without excesses
\nor limitations-
\na naked spade in the fire
\na column of water in the sun,
\na soul floating amongst the flowers.<\/p>\n

All the passions were set on fire.
\nThey burn and do not touch her.<\/p>\n

Why does this body have everything,
\nwhy is this body eternal
\nand imperishable; it stands in opposition to death
\nand challenges him with life.<\/p>\n

1987<\/p>\n

Translated by Lisa Socrates<\/p>\n

 <\/p>\n

 <\/p>\n

FROM THE COLLECTION\u00a0TRANSIENT SPRING<\/em>, 1984<\/h4>\n

 <\/p>\n

\"\"<\/p>\n

THE DEATH OF THE TREES<\/strong><\/p>\n

In northern countries where in the long winters
\nthe snow covers the ground
\nno-one knows
\nwhen precisely the trees die.<\/p>\n

They shed their leaves in the autumn
\nand they stand naked in line with the snow.
\nthe spring arrives, the snow melts,
\nthe trees, leaves and blossoms fly quickly
\nhere and there.
\nIt is then revealed that certain trees
\nhave died at some stage in the winter.
\nAs birds who have left for other lands
\nwho do not return to the roots.<\/p>\n

Their body now stands in line
\nTogether with the others,
\nin this festival of life,
\nnaked, underlining with lead
\nin the blue and the green
\ntheir death, simple and the humble.<\/p>\n

Moscow, winter 1982<\/p>\n

Translated by Lisa Socrates<\/p>\n

 <\/p>\n

 <\/p>\n

ANCIENT STONES<\/strong><\/p>\n

On stones which from childhood have us known
\nwith my brothers I sit and talk.
\nStriving to recollect
\nall that has happened during our long years of separation,
\nWhat each has lived and dreamed and known,
\nto fill the void and renew our friendship.<\/p>\n

At some time on memory, like a stage
\ncurtain, darkness falls
\nand ends the act,
\na river flows by and separates us.
\nWe cease to recognize one another, in other tongues we speak<\/p>\n

But these stones intrude
\nchiseled to the measure of our hands and body,
\ncarved to the measures of our soul, our tongue,
\nthese stones appear and recognize us.<\/p>\n

1984<\/p>\n

Translated by Mary Begley Ioannides<\/p>\n

 <\/p>\n

 <\/p>\n

FROM THE COLLECTION\u00a0THE MOON USED TO BE GREAT<\/em>, 1980<\/h4>\n

 <\/p>\n

\"\"<\/p>\n

THE MOON USED TO BE GREAT<\/strong><\/p>\n

Without dreams, without heroes, how can one live?
\nThe mind loaded with so many broken columns,
\ntrunks of trees, broken bones\u2026
\nIt founders.<\/p>\n

An abandoned house remains
\neach corner loaded with memories.
\nThe first lines engraved on the wall\u00b4s plaster,
\nthe cypress in the middle of the yard
\nwith an alluring epigraph engraved on its trunk.
\nHow great the moon used to be\u2026 and truly,
\nthe Summer evenings, the August moon!\u2026
\nThe moon was once great
\nin five drops of virginal blood.
\nBesides I cannot remember where I hid her photograph,
\na love of long ago, forgotten.<\/p>\n

And the photographs of friends, where are they,
\nnow that they are absent?
\nA large cypress in the middle of the yard
\ntouched the moon its journey.<\/p>\n

There is hope they told us, that they are alive,
\nundeclared captives at some concentration camp
\nor in some uranium galley and perhaps one day they will return.
\nThere are hopes that they live, that they are working,
\nhurrying to stand in queue for the mess,
\nto give each other courage, to quarrel, to swear at each other.
\nThere are hopes that we too
\nwill greet the sea one day
\nwith the old familiar gestures, gazing at it with yearning
\nin the way we look at a beautiful woman.
\nWe will avoid death in was
\nthe polluted air, radiation\u2026<\/p>\n

The trench in the middle of the yard
\nwas dangerous even from plain bombs
\nand as the cypress\u00b4 shadow learnt over
\nit was exposed to the moon. Now I remember
\nI hid the photographs of friends in the moon
\nand the one of the adolescent young virgins,
\nin the trench. Now I walk naked in foreign lands.<\/p>\n

I think back to the motherland,
\nthe scenes are upright in the plain like ships\u00b4 sails,
\nand grandfather amongst them like the Mermaid
\nalways asking is He alive?\u2026
\nand who this, and that.
\n\u201cHe lives\u201d, they would say to him,
\nwhilst he travels on his last journey.<\/p>\n

1980<\/p>\n

Translated by Lisa Sokrates<\/p>\n

 <\/p>\n

 <\/p>\n

FROM THE COLLECTION\u00a0AUTOBIOGRAPHIA<\/em>, 1972<\/h4>\n

\"\"<\/p>\n

A BLACK SNAKE<\/strong><\/p>\n

To Theodoros Stylianou, a friend<\/p>\n

Now a black snake reigns in the village
\nthe old mansion its palace.<\/p>\n

Black snakes
\nare tamed with bread made of wheat
\nor with black bread made of barley
\nin times of poverty.<\/p>\n

Now so alone yet
\nstill a faithful guard,
\nit underlines the desolation even more
\nas it holds onto its bitter story:<\/p>\n

It was many years ago, when in the village
\nthe last master of the house lived
\nin this mansion. It recalls
\ntheir last child being born.
\nThey often spoke about leaving then,
\nabout fields that did not yield enough to feed them,
\nabout the child and the school they would send him to.<\/p>\n

The child and the snake then became best friends
\nand every night they slept
\nin the child\u00b4s crib together, embraced.
\nOne awaited the other
\nand both awaited night.<\/p>\n

And when the child could speak
\nand when the names of this parents he could utter
\nfilling the house with joy,
\nhe always spoke of the friend
\nthat awaited him every night.
\nBut who would believe a child that says:<\/p>\n

\u201cThe shake will come and together we will sleep\u201d.
\nUntil the day that his mother saw,
\nthat while her child lay in his crib,
\na snake climbed
\nand the child, with a cry of joy,
\nstretched his little hands,
\nand the two united like brothers.<\/p>\n

The mother was fearful
\nand the whole house was fearful.
\nWhat could they understand
\nabout this one of life\u00b4s games?
\nand so together, they took the child and left.<\/p>\n

And so a snake wanders alone
\nin the ruins.
\nIt has slept in winters,
\nbeen awake in summers,
\nhas shed many skins but always
\nremembers a child, a crib
\nand a life that once was
\nwhen snake and child embraced.<\/p>\n

And so the child, now a grown man,
\nhas heard the old story
\nas if it were a fairytale.
\nAnd now, when he returns to see
\nthe house that once was his house,
\nhe sees the snake and becomes fearful.<\/p>\n

1972<\/p>\n

Translated by Irena Ioannides<\/p>\n<\/div>\n<\/div>\n<\/div>","protected":false},"excerpt":{"rendered":"

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