KONSTANTIN FISCHER, HANIA, CRETE
MAYBE ON THE ISLAND OF CRETE
When you arrived nobody cared:
to them you were just a number
whether or not from Libya,
from war-torn Syria or Egypt,
Iraq or Afghanistan.
They would have never imagined
a boy's own story in a Hamam;
or later: your first love – no questions asked –
still within the limits of tradition.
Beyond these limits: your embrace of frangy ideas,
not Kavafis so much or Lord Byron,
but Mary Renault, or worse: Andre Gide,
E. M. Forster, Jean Genet and Cunningham, kus okhto.
When you finally arrived
on a Greek island maybe, or in Italy, or Malta,
when your body washed ashore
to the Europeans you were just a number.
Konstantin Fischer, 2015