Kerkera

Kerkera, I'm leaving you, my love.
You know the reasons:
I can't fish, I can't farm
and I'm allergic to all tourists.

Adio, my native land
Where shall your like be found?
Where the sounds and soft airs?
There is a fourth Fate that governs income.

Up the saint of any other deme!
Captain, weigh anchor, malakia,
Keep, oh my friends, me, keep me
from Athens we sail for America.

St. Spiridon, St. Spiridon
money first, then
to the haven of your holy bones
light me safely home, again.

poem by Morgan Michaels
Submitted by Poetry Lover
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