The Byzantine Estate

Partial roots pull me to those shores
A young man left a century before
He looked like me in every way
Eyes, hands and voice – that’s what they say

Byzance is where the soul travels
When it is seeking the mother’s navel
When Paris’ sky is low and grey
And I’m tired of chasing another prey

I miss an island and Aegean blue
The smile of a friend, a fish meal for two
A milky cold drink, a quiet chat
Under the sun, an old straw hat

The smell of tobacco, a village square
Quiet afternoons, a breeze to share
The graceful waves of a white curtain
Confused thoughts, nothing is certain

Cut off the dream, walk out of the impasse
Your mind is drifting and lost its compass
You live in grey, this is your fate
Have no regrets, you filled your plate
You’ve chosen cold, it’s a bit late
And distant is the Byzantine Estate.