Yiorgos Christodoulides Poems

Instruments are but our need
to hear something else than our stupid voices.

Yet through the sounds of the violin
...

A parade in Paris; so unexpected.
We were heading for Notre-Dame.
Gold-red uniforms of spearmen;
horses’ feces in the streets.
...

My body carries
the dust of the road you crossed.
My feet bear
the burden of your fatigue.
...

Morning reveals onto the day's canvas
an image of frozen immigrants.
Standing at the bus stop
they are waiting for an imaginary bus
...