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George Psaltis was born in Athens in 1969. He has published two books of poetry: Return to the United Country, Ikaros, 2008, and Please Do Not Dig Here, a Dog Is Buried, Ikaros Publications, 2011. He wrote the libretto for the liturgical drama The Hour of the Last Supper. His writings have been published in literary journals and on websites. H. This child who had to be born alone, with a father incapable of connecting with him, almost an illegitimate child of his mother who marvelled at him without being sure why, dies tonight on a hill, with the pain of old wine – that is, vinegar – which he never asked to drink since he was not thirsty except to be able to understand what had happened before he himself could come to be as the long-suffering king of a people who refused to tell the truth to themselves consistently never to have been defined as a race except by a Law which regards both humans and God as equal, so now he must say ‘it is finished’ so that urgently throughout the ages he may unite earth with heaven in the shape of a cross.

This is Giorgos K. Psaltis’s second collection of poetry. His first, entitled ‘Return to the United Country’, Ikaros 2008, was shortlisted for the 2009 Debut Author Award by Diavazo magazine. His poems have been published in the magazine Lexei. From the book: IN MY ROOM as a small child I lived in a room without words and once I painted the sky red and the sun blue I framed that world in a round picture frame and I dreamed of an eagle hunting snakes there was wheat everywhere and just one shiny tomato and I woke up on the horizon and saw the red, lying sun and I said to the little child, ‘Now he’s going to sleep’ and he asked me about the Moon and I said, ‘She’s a beautiful goddess here, but a tired old man elsewhere’ and I showed him Poulia as she passed by, frightened and searched the sea behind her for the Dawn and he said to me, ‘I don’t understand’ and I said to him ‘then it has never happened’

SUNDAY Silences enclosed within the voices mementos muted and composed heavy memories that became fairy tales or were buried so bitterness might not touch them all around, photographs we do not look at; forms of shadows of loved ones present; perhaps

_But that’s the thing about you I’ve chosen you above all others over everyone else. You’ve won them over. I don’t know if they’ve lost out I’m here. But you’re missing you’ve just left. At the top of the hill, step onto the moon and fly. _