It was the gun
they all talked about.
The cop is a young
twenty-three year old.
About the Greeks! So many!
All dark-faced like Arabs.
They all have fathers,
in cement factories kneading mud.
None though
earned their bread with ease.
Their bread.
The bitter bread poisons their thoughts
spits hatred.
The young cop is twenty three,
his face is white
like sea foam.
His hair alight with millions of sparks
like Apollo,
the god in the sky, so many
Greeks worshipped him
for thousands of years
in the land of Attiki.
Daglish, Western Australia
New: 13 December, 1996 | Now: 21 April, 2015