Publication 644
By orwell on
Saturday, July 3, 2004
at
16:09
Location:
Ireland
Registered:
Thursday, August 14, 2003
Posts:
18
SearchQuote
All those drops of pure redness
Forgotten in the misty street lights
Emerges with this coming morning,
Of cafés within men’s voices there lingers
A scent of hesitations dashed with hope
For neither victory nor loss, have played
A game, with these olive skinned fishermen
Who strike their blue flames deep within-
This scared lined room, of their fathers
Where they now smoke in, as each other
For this is the place these men cannot speak
Of in their souls, where they make these vast
Moves visible in the misty light they breath in,
And know that spot, where time is nothing less
Than an old friend blessing this immortal state.
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The Greek Fishermen: Playing Chess
