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.
Yaacov David Shulman