THIS IS CYPRUS
THIS is Cyprus, this is the island of love
that holds the gate of the world for men and warmth
against dry-hot immensities of emptiness
- mirages and great darkness – of the Egyptian Desert.
This is Cyprus, this is the new-old land
where conflict breeds, where even now (as always
since de Quiros gilded its image in men’s thoughts)
man has his choice to make between the high
banner-flame of allegiance to his land
and the shop-sign of rabbit-burrowing blindness
that gnaws at roots, and, plague-like, kills
all that will never fill his purse nor stretch his bellyskin.
This is Cyprus, this is each one’s earth
that is Cypriot, this soil is sacred
now and forever for each one for whom
the vision of this land resurgent ever stirs
in every landscape, for each one that sees
in every town and village, every house
and veranda, every street and court-yard
each patch of untouched olive trees, each wasted acre
that the greed of Mouflon has furrowed and scarred and swept
and ploughed to barrenness, for each that sees
as his own body and as mighty all this land.
This is Cyprus, not even the close slums
which greed, transplanting with itself – and them –
from colder earths the huddling timid minds
of driven sheep, has set like cankerous disease
close to each city’s heart, can stint or limit
the magnificence of this land’s vision,
that men – slum-minded all, in village or in towns–
seek in their living death of mind to cramp and set
in pocket-handkerchief-size dreams of money,
each one afraid, knowing himself too small
to see as one, forever unified and great,
this narrow land that seeks its dedicated sons.
This is Cypriot, each tree and cactus, each hill,
each mountain, each vast plain where locust-storms
ride the ancient beds of ancient seas,
each ruin covered in spring flowers,
each river, long dry, that thunders when the rains
break their all-feeding benediction on the earth,
each rock that carving ancient myth explains,
each orange tree the donkey's grey reflection shows,
each jasmine along the north-east shores,
each valley where the pine trees are wooded to the peak,
each foot of earth, each stick, each grain of dust,
makes, and is ever part of, each Cypriot.
This is Cyprus, this is the land
whose sons and daughters are forever blind
and deaf to all its mystery; this is the island of love
barren of lovers; this is the land defiled
by those who flesh is quarried from its earth;
this is the land whose sons and daughters turn
their faces form it, holding always
vain dreams in their small minds of their own greatness
greater than it; this is the land whose children
fear it, being so small and petty-mean
that never in their hearts is courage great enough
for them to love its beauty and immensity.
This is Cyprus. This is the land
now raising new spirit of its earth;
this is the land that now a few do love
fiercely and fearlessly; this is the land
than now has found a few to call
its vision from the cupboard of neglect
and set it up for every man to see.
This is the land preparing for those sons
who shall acknowledge their full fellowship
with every fistful of its soil, sons who shall hold
that soil as their own flesh, sons who shall be
fanatic and consecrated in their loyalty.