Theodorakis conducting the creation at the Royal Albert Hall London

Seferis has broken his silence. So has Anna Synodinou. Could this be the heralding of the dawn ? »Forward, creators !« I hear the brassy voice of Angelos Sikelianos. I see him floating back and forth through the clouds like an enormous angel. I see him advancing along noisy roads. »Forward ! Help us raise the sun over Greece!« This verse of Sikelianos carries me along like a whirlwind. It is snowing. I am alone. The guards are shivering with the cold. I cal1 them in. It is warm indoors. I offer them some Marc, some nuts and some dried figs. They take their greatcoats off. I sit down at the piano and compose. They stare at me. »Let's start again…« I take up Sikelianos's poem again from the beginning and get right into the music. Another round of Marc. The walnut trees are covered with snow. I stop writing. »What about going down to the café?« They would rather not. »No, go on playing!« I cover a sheet of music. The bottle of Marc is empty. It has stopped snowing. We leave the house with crimson faces, with alcohol and music coming out of the pores of our skin. We clear the snow from the road. We go into the café. »Yannis, I'm buying a round for everybody!« »What's happened, are you getting married?« says Khronis. »Exactly ! I've just married my music to Sikelianos…' And one of the guards, who was watching me closely as I was writing, cries out : »Forward ! Help us raise the sun over Greece !« Lambis butts in : »It's my turn to buy a round! Let's go and get some mézés from the grocer's.«

But I am only at the beginning: I stay indoors the next day and the day after that, and this goes on for over a week. The guards wonder what is happening. They show interest in the work's progress and come up the stairs to get tit bits of information. Lambis brings me food so I don't die of hunger. They all understand that I am in another world and it makes quite an impression on them. The snow is now a metre deep. I open the door on to the balcony. The air is crystal clear. The guards have lit a fire in front of Madame Fotini's house, next door.

»Well?«' they ask.

»It's finished !«

»March of the Spirit« was born.