The Walls Of Babel Poem by Niko Tiliopoulos

Thousands the wishes, thousands the cries,
on our birthday cake
we’ve added another candle
to light our nights,
to shorten our shadows.

But why do I feel so lonely
inside this brightness?
Why is there so much darkness
in the well of our joy?

How much has our happiness grown?
How many wrinkles have been added to our shape?
How beautiful has love become?
How much more pain can an infant’s cry hold?

The river overflowed its banks
to water the mud-worms,
whose mouths were filled with the salt
of the flesh of the dead.

Many heroes have died on these river banks
from Morpheus’s arrows,
looking for the staff of the Baptist,
whose blood became soup
in the plates of the barbarians.

No one ever found it,
no one was worth it.

Because the Earth is hiding it well
in her staff-chest.
Because the words, the magical,
that unlock the ground, are holy,
but of a human alphabet,
and although many knew them,
no one spoke them with their heart.

But who has such power in their heart?

To neutralise the absinth’s poison
that we drink every morning with our coffee,
that we speak every day with our words,
that we inject every night to the veins of our brain,
with remotely controlled syringes of cadmium and iodine
(ah! Fermi’s offspring)

Which Benedictine saint can falsify the scripts?
Which crusader can kill the dragon?
Which human can prevent our cells from being burned on fate’s fire?
Who gave us the right to ignore God and break the seals?

But…
thousands the wishes, thousands the cries,
on our tower
we have added another brick
to sustain our sleep,
to hide our souls.