Κέρκυρα

The birds are fat.
The beggars are drunk;
still their pockets rattle with coins dropped
from the fingers of generous hands.

The tourist family:
grandfather, mother and son
all have their noses pointed towards
their cellphones - the tiny electronic oracles
obviously have more to offer than
the rich history and the mountains of Corfu.

The melodious voices of the past remain there;
the dull monotone of modern speaking
is what continues to come from island throats
from now until the oceans rise and swallow
the rich rocks of Northern Greece.

Locals stay here for the entirety of their lives.
They are born here, they work here,
and ultimately they die here;
only the lucky ones escape.
Only the outcasts have a reason to leave.
The explorers were the lucky misfits to leave their homes.

Once they have been gone,
coming home will never be the same.
The feet that have walked on other dirt
have a hard time remembering the
paved streets of their native lands.

.....

The men stand outside the church,
or they walk down the uneven streets,
maybe sitting in coffee shops;
they count their prayer beads.
Click. Click. Click. Click...

For some it seems more like a nervous habit
than a practiced ritual.
The weight of their worlds,
their families,
the burden of knowledge:
the tracks of fifty years
of unshed tears
burning holes in their bellies.

The tough image of old men
carried forward by their sons
and taught to their grandsons:
it is not acceptable to cry.