The light is harsh this morning
in Monastiraki square.
It blends in with disillusionment and
and a faint trace of hope,
and penetrates your skin like the needle
of a drug addict,
soothing for a second,
in the icy coldness of a draught
that foretells of a winter
looming dark on the horizon.

Here, there is no hope,
the young cry out.
All paths are a dead end.
Their voice, a cry in the wilderness.
And Isaac, all bound up,
with the blessings of the State,
the IMF and the gnomes of Wall St,
is slowly but firmly led
to the altar.

Athens 2010