The only story Excerpt: European waistlines Poem by Ida Börjel

I have my Greek pride to hold and not to burst. I walk out on my piece of Greek land and there it is. In the Greek ground the world grew. I grow olive trees in the soil where Greek geniuses once trod. Little neat Greek goats run about, leaving their tracks. The black Greek goat jumps up on the roof of the restaurant and tosses its little head in the peaceful Greek village, affirming it all. So Italian people claim to have history, so Germans and Finnish make their claims. The modest Greek women come walking together in black and they will never forget. Others keep forgetting. Belgian people forget, the Danish do not remember. Luxembourgian people cannot think of anything to recall. I walk, back bent, under the Greek foliage to collect my olives. Greek goats come running. They make the same noise they always have made since the beginning, but who seems to remember? I stand beside my trees and it is the beginning of it all, but who gives pride its proper place? The Italian blood keeps rising the French burst for nothing at all. I stand in the Greek dusk just as they once did before me. The black Greek women silently nod at each other from the donkeys along the road
translation by Linda Rugg