The little prince fulfilled
his written tale.
The regal void
now belongs to the slaves.
Alone, no navigation,
they dress with the regal garment
of lunacy,
they feed on the deadly illusions
in a garden that bore hate
for understanding.
Alone, no navigation, the slaves
bend over the symptomes:
here it rots,
here it stinks, there
a burning, lethal day compresses
the heart, pushes
against time, catches the wind
and imprisons it.
The wind listens closely
to the music of the flowers,
the wind caresses love.
The wind does not mimic
the worldly and
slips away from time,
from the day of the slaves.
Modern Coryvandes sail
in a chaos of no end.
The wind does not yield
to the nightmare.
The wind flies away
with the little prince.
Translated in English by Anna Greka.
Niki Pontika is a teacher of Modern Greek, who lives and works in Thessaloniki, Greece. Anna Greka is a junior at Harvard University and a former student of Niki Pontika.