Kideía Tou Vernarth, The sky was lost in colors; everything was snowy white, shimmering with white clouds that were arranged on top of other pearly ones, which tend to break from above the stupor brought by the Cherubim and Seraphim to receive Vernarth and Alikantus. Arriving at the highest plain, Vernarth spotted the Mashiach who was guarding him, he was wearing a white garment, and on his neck was an ornament that the Hoplite Soldiers of Arbela had given them. When Vernarth dismounted he saw on his Lynothorax a Hoplomachus, which was the same medallion worn by warriors to face the divine death in combat, given by a Thraex, who always accompanied him with the Kantabroi with the sulfur mists after the battles, oxidized wore a manica in the arm that seemed to signal with the tip of the finger the XIX chapter of the Apocalypse of San Juan Apóstol, in both legs an ocrea labeling the chorus of hexameters that chanted the Sybils to revive them. And on his head that turned three hundred and sixty degrees, he carried the Leonatus with another Elbmo under his arms with eyepieces with grid and crest, on his right leg, a Xiphos hung like the telamo that he took from both angles of his legs to approximate to carrying his steed pulled by his hands.

His belly heaved with anxiety, in his hands came to the folder that Drestnia and Etrestles had written that he had condescended to from the Koumeterium of Messolonghi, saying:

"All the cities of the world will be called Athens... because from there you will reach Patmos where you are in all places." Everything is ancient because soon it gets dark, and the funeral speech is the first death that you saw when you were an infant..., all the people who are with your majesty yearn for civil that you implicate in the legacy of the deep Christmas in Patmos, with mantles, wines, rolls and thick Corinthian wines in his credible creation Patmiana leaving them in the corridor that reaches the end, where the alabaster replaces the burning manger..., as a tale of two stories and struggle, which are exalted narrating the wars after which their dominated lands are suspended in the waters of the Aegean, and tinged with the apparent unrealized pact.

The whole world will be called Patmos, where nothing and no one will defeat you without first a dirge when the gargoyles of your veins sob, when their capitulation is filled with culture that swirls between the white tablecloths of Kissamos and Kímolos, this is where the Sarissas They will parade through the pantheon like thousands of solitary spears towards the perpetuity of the heritage that doubles the clouds pregnant with liquid bronze, to be scattered throughout Athens like stoles of marble chaff that the Meltemi carries with the prudence of ennobling the first shocks of the storms that predict your departure. Nothing of minimalism or arbitrariness that cannot be resolved in loopholes that are hidden among the requirements, in which all the threats have been admonished from the fallen canopy on your integrity, on the Cherub that fights with his empty hands like a beautiful fallen angel at the dawn of Miletus, already being a state governed by the Hoplomachus with his dyed sword, where you can see what and you can be more than a convention of gladiators, such as this and in fact disposed towards the courage of what the courage produces with the infamy of seeing you pray alone in its black stretch. In everything you were left alone, favorable only to the disagreement of what you should be or do because you will not be able to return, you are already a legionnaire who carries the world on his back struck down with his Kantabroi Corinth. Why did you sully yourselves with your weathered hands, why somehow the Nikephoros bring victories that are slow to come and soon gone? Thirsty for victories they bring vessels and flows incapable of satisfying you in the immensity of their anguish, and everything is done just when what fits in my thinking fills my belly, and what saturates the belly is tied to the Rudder of your precocious olive trees, from so much that the atabal sounds, it turns it into empires of stones that do not coin the subsidiary complaints of their war, if you dare of hostiles that bring food for dinner and of everything that pours the tediousness of piling up leftovers where nothing is enormous anymore What a grievance to sigh. Vernarth, the world of Messolonghi and its eternity comes to give you the admission of a Commander!, who deals with greatness and simplicity, as you can understand from sixty-four springs that have closed the eyes of Pericles just like yours, where the laws will have to indemnify and fill vessels that remain empty for this toast "Stin iyia sas o Khaire" from Elpenor to your house and health from a Nikephoros prayer book or conquest to win over everything, ... but continue drunk alive and reborn in other taps condescending of mythological swings, where the laws revive the second or third vigils of treats that lead into the orbit of a Hoplite.

I see you comfortable in the klimós that take you to the Empyrium, where the scattered saliva mixed with wine is confused with models of taking you to your new home? Do it again. In the eighth Cemetery of Messolonghi a great revolt has been made, she prescribes to pay you honors with Markos Botsaris at the head of which all the gold spilled on the table will be made with bows and arrows, shields, and spears to take them to Patmos and Athens, for fluvial sounds that sound like the Hékein or formality of lavishing to do or utter, so that everything is in favor of desolate places that will not be felt throughout Greece when they understand that you carry all the laments of the Warriors who hide behind the moor so as not to see them sob, still feeling the drums of the compass of a victory where wine runs that is written in the stands of Epidaurus, signing the chaste peace with its Medical Wars. It seems good to you that the ghosts speak of democracies, and that they also govern them with the spill of the satisfaction of public ovation that only does it with two or three flags, Oh Brother, I dress in foreign attire that enlivens your lightness from head to toe, I want to see you revived on the plains without stopping riding with Alikantus, free from all stratagem and fantastic scents of lavender, and summer-roasted grasses from the hall of the Athens oven. Do not be afraid, we have distances that are difficult to overcome, it will be the expulsion of our hearts if we allow ourselves to be overtaken by the watering of their rudeness that always complains of open will, do not be afraid, Pericles trusts your departure just like you at sixty-four, of such a Syntagma double 32 who appreciates you right and left in our companies, with courage obsequiously in becoming where the wind rises in Abdera.

We can dare to say that we are a group of seven, in the association of 25 men from the Syntagma who will accompany us, divided... but not divided! That it is nothing more than death as a double life that is put in front of you, that shows its opposite face of the Syntagma where victory and defeat offer omens of revival in both battles, not all of us are saved by our annihilation, nor by its quality of picking ourselves up even among the vanquished of invisible conflagrations or just because of the excessive feeling that is not imbued with beauty in what ends or begins, we know that you will come in Solstices and Equinoxes free from its austere plagues, and reborn from Aspasia or social life of gatherings that draw your eyes from seeing so much beauty light up in the theater that never ends, for this we know that we will measure what fits in your bladder, and the wine that we are ashamed to recognize in order to satisfy you, Oh Brother, receive from a whole nation and from the buried of Messolonghi how happy they will see you to come to visit us, whose boasting Homer eulogy disowns, with plausible lightning strikes from all frontiers if a Sycamore makes your initial on its bark, granting a new star to Greece where you will be able to observe that it bears fruit from where you will not be able to taste it, otherwise you will be able to affirm yourselves well from the trunk where you will be able to write values that resemble it by virtue of the Kashmar that points to the Aegean Sea .

An immortal never affirms him about a sycamore, rather he affirms himself with probity that resembles the richness of a story written by locals who know well that they are spring harvests. No one can have more praise than Drestnia, and I to receive you in our land cleared of enemies and sit at our table for the sole fact of avenging challenges that speak of saving and falling back, of counterattacking with perseverance carrying in your hand what breaks the Light and becomes your subject "The Sword Xiphos". In the end, the voices are filled with hope and fortune of your sword that could stop time, and bring you made of meat in the herd of Mosul as a weak naughty, for this equivalent with our parents who enjoyed our votes, such cenotaphs and that The weak have to live protected by strong walls that have to record in their narrow urns, empty and perplexed by Freedom from other unfortunates who will not enjoy it, who will not be afraid to die in the land that does not recognize martyrs who are still destined to live gloriously declining. How foolish it seems to you when the mouthful of bodies from the battlefield rise with it to the sky of all, and of evils that are made benevolent by so many miracles to live next to them, fearful right there before the city bailiff who does not dare to dare to bury you in their domains, to see you resurrected in the domains or district of the fearful ruler. Now wear your halo, take it with your five senses, and make of them courageous thirds where your precinct declares that no one will erase or forget it”