1- PAEAN (WAR SONG)Majestic mountains embrace
rocks, precipices, people, pine trees.
They have seen Turkish hordes and other conquering armies
Iand have received the corpses of heroes and tolerated curses of valiants
The trees are left that shaded the sleep of Perdikas.
The cuckoo that Kolokotronis never heard
has come to make its nest in Zatouna.
In vain my guards try
to cage its song;
the ravines carry it on their shoulders
and swiftly take it to the olive groves.
Oh, how high reach the mountains of Arcadia!
They dominate the seas
and the flute of Pan drowns
the growlings of the army barracks.
Boas, orangutangs, apes, dressed in gowns
holding sceptres
Archbishops and army commanders shout « Hurrah »
and behind them rise feathers of birds
The heroes in panic abandon the marbles;
they escape from the verses of the poets
and there they find refuge by the banks of Loussios,
by the spring of mount Mainelon they share the shade
with the lark.
Oh mountains, guardians of my country's bravery;
your dream is the Paean
and your song the gun.
2 - TO THE UNKNOWN POET
To you, Rhigas Phereos, I cry out
From Australia to Canada
and from Germany to Tashkent
the Greeks are dispersed
in prisons, on islands and mountains.
To you, Dionysios Solomos, I cry out
Into jailed and jailers
beaters and beaten
orderers and ordered
terrorists and terrorized
possessors and possessed
The Greeks are divided.
To you, Andreas Kalvos, I cry out
Most shining the sun wonders
and also the mountains and the fir trees
the seashores and the nightingales
my country that was the cradle of beauty and the golden mean
today a place of death.
To you, Kostis Palamas, I cry out
Never before has so much light turned to darkness
so much courage to fear
so much strength to weakness
so many heroes to marble busts.
My country, the country of Digenis and Diakos
today a country of subjects.
To you, Nikos Kazantzakis, I cry out
Although the dead forget
the dead who still speak the language of Androutsos
Memory resides behind the iron bars and the watches
memory resides in the stones
nestles in the yellow leaves
that cover your body, oh Greece!
To you, Angellos Sikelianos, I cry out
You are the soul of my country
the many-sided river
blinded by the blood that colors the groaning
disabled by the geat hatred and the great love
which equally occupy your soul.
The soul of my country is the handcuffs
tightened on two rivers
two mountains tied by ropes to the bench on the roof
the valley of Argos swollen by the whip
and Olympus tied, hands behind,
to the mast of the aircraft-carrier
to confess.
The soul of my country is this seed
which stretched its roots on the rock
you are mother, wife, daughter
who perceives from afar the sea and the mountains
and secretly paints with blood
the red eggs of the Resurrection
that the times and men brood.
So let ever come into my miserable land
Greek Easter
To you, unknown poet, I cry out!
English translation by George Giannaris
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