​Spearhead island, Lindos, Kremasti, lemons and wine grapes,
The fallow deer clamber amidst pine and cypress,
In the valley, the Petaloudes, the orange-winged
Tiger-moths flutter up, startle, swarm. 
One tiger-moth dreamt he was the emperor,
Awoke to find himself a butterfly, recalled
His dream in heavy moments of contemplation, his wings
Still, returning in thought to when he could not fly,
His sword lay upon his thigh, and he retook
The isle. Hic Rhodus, hic salta! Awake,
Then, Dodecanese eye, gaze upon 
The fine flowers of Paradisi, rocky shores
Seeded with drachmas, Mycenean necklaces, the pink
Hibiscus. Awake, no longer hold the iron sword.

South of Chios, north of Patmos and the Dodecanese,
Off the coast of Asia minor,
Birthplace of Pythagoras, the golden jackal,
The monk seal, the stone marten,
Samian wine and red pottery, the Ionic temple
And Epicurus. Oh vinyards and muscat,
Ampelos and Kerkis, Heraion, Aristarchus,
Oh Cesme Strait, Vrontados and Kambos, birthplace of Homer,
High-hearted hero. Amphoras with sphynxes and bunches of grapes
Held Chian wine, drunk by the hero, returned Theopompus,
Who told of the animals’ love for the citharode, told of the dolphin,
Brave friend of the stripling, told of the slaves, barbarian strangers
Who escaped to the mountains, then ravaged the country with trees overgrown,
Of their leader, Drimacus, famed gentle hero, who persuaded another 
To cut off his head and thus procure freedom, freedom and riches. 

Loud-roaring, wine-colored sea, sporting long hair,
Ox-eyed, bronze-armored sun, oh! glancing-eyed
To the mountain shore, whose hollow ships love laughter, 
The glinting helmet, the shield of thunder, horse-taming,
Wind-footed. And on the slope, the flaming-
Haired mastic tree, its limbs knotted, 
Scarred, weeping, great-hearted, beneath
The dazzling bolt, the thunderheads, driven like
Horses across the Aegean Sea, the swaggering,
Silver-footed earth-shaking sacker
Of cities, spear-famed master of war-cries!
Oh, may the softly-braided dusk descend, 
And devious-devising high-hearted schemes amend.

​    There I met the wise man, mumbling upon his stones. “I have had a vision,” he informed me, “of the creatures who live on the moon.” He raised his face to that brilliant globe, whose startling silver suffused the harbor with coruscating prickles.
    “I saw there creatures, female all their lives when, every 300 rotations about the earth, they all of them, due to some celestial influence, are transformed into males.”
    “How, then,” I interpolated, “do they breed and continue to exist?”
    “Ah!” he said. “That is the wonder. Because, you see, the same catalyst that causes this change brings about the growth of a certain green lichen-like substance that grows upon the surface of the moon rocks, even as all other sustenance decays. The creatures are forced therefore to eat this substance, whose peculiar power thrusts them back in time. Thus, these creatures, now male, come upon themselves as female. They mate and directly after this they die. Ten moon circulations later, these females hatch crystalline eggs, which they bury in the gray soil. When, 310 lunar rotations later, all of the creatures have perished, these eggs hatch, new creatures emerge, and the cycle begins yet again.”
    “And,” I exclaimed, “is this the sum total of their lives?”
    “No,” replied the sage, “for they leave behind tablets of wondrous verse, and each new generation adds to the trove of the previous generation. And thus they have filled the Sea of Waves with the peculiar script, carved by their diamond-like claws upon the body of the moon itself.”

​Even that which is, is, and it has its spark
Taken forth and shaken, lifted from the dark
Washed, brought forward, polished, once or twice or more.
Is it rich amidst the stones or cupped, a poor
Receptacle of virtues, a bowl, an eye,
A ewe, a cry, rich dark earth beneath the sky?

​The name of the district
Where the Jews live 
is Pera
Pera is
The name of the district
Where the Jews live
Where the Jews live,
The name of the district
Is Pera
Beneath the district
The subterranean waters rush unceasing
The air of the district is still it shines
Birds of the district weave words
In the lace of the trees
High tall clouds boil in the heavens
Constantly turning over their thoughts.