translation of "Πατρίδα"
Like a rudderless ship in a raging sea,
your sails in shreds,
torn by winds that spare no soul.
They dress you in flags
only to leave you bare.
They call you Homeland,
then barter you for chairs of power.
Your children leave, hearts like stones.
You do not banish them,
yet you make no effort to hold them.
The old are left to die in silence,
while your streets overflow
with cries no one answers.
To whom do you yield now?
To whom do you whisper?
To what glowing screens,
to which kneeling men?
What gods remain
to receive your fading faith?
Hands unseen bind you at night.
They name you an Idea,
yet measure you in votes and percentages.
They mourn you when it suits them,
but vanish when bribery knocks.
Ah, Homeland…
in whose hands
are you dying
a slow, unholy death?
from the collection
“Herons of Death”
titled “Homeland”