Living like a puppet
manipulated like a pet,
by an invisible puppeteer
on a cloudy day on the pier.
I need to cut off the bonding strings
And escape to anything freedom brings.
I will set my body free and act on my own.
I have to wake up and write my life's script down.
I will erase greyness and cloudy thoughts to the bone.
There's no need to act like a pathetic zombie-like clown.

I came here in Spring,
Green, wet, haunting.
I came here in Summer,
Grim, wet, haunting.
I came here in August,
Green, sunny, but haunting.
I came here in Autumn,
Bleak, Gothic, eerie.

It's like a walk through history
from the 1860's - yes -
Orphans that are now dead,
Just like my childhood.
I will come here in winter,
bleaker, wetter, haunting.
You go through a tunnel of tombstones,
old tombstones decorating the tunnel's walls.
You walk through and then you see the light,
you leave the graveyard behind you.
I will be here again.
It will be green, maybe grim,
but always haunting.

And while Cyprus was still collecting her broken pieces,
her broken bones and flesh, her broken children;
the enemy struck her again, relentlessly,
for the second time in a matter of days.
The enemy's only care was to destroy
to take, to pillage, and desecrate that ancestral soil.
Her soil, her bones, her blood; her children
broken once again. . .
She's still broken 41 years later
She still waits, broken 41 years later,
for someone to mend and piece back together
her pieces, her bones, her blood. . .
her children.

I saw a bird this morning
The early sun was caressing his plumage
It was standing there, on the black iron balustrades
Of our unused balcony
Feeling the sun, feeling the warmth
I looked away and it disappeared
In the blink of an eye
The sun is still there, waiting.