The chaos becomes green.
The pavements, the balconies
The falling shoes, the flying sheets,
The feral streets
The butterflies are now the crazy people
Once pushed away,
Because they talk to benches or touch your sleeve.
But now they are the butterflies
A passenger said,
And taxi drivers found another thing
To attend their humorous lies.
Through the windows,
The visual is interesting at parts,
As the disconnected pictures form a story
With gardens, bus stops, or four-star hotels
And hazy faces, shaken by the hurried atmosphere.
In the pavements you see the truth of grey,
That which beggars beg for,
The last shade of sympathy
Highlighted by tricky suns,
Just before the afternoon.
Just before the soldier rearranges his lips in Syntagma.
Just before the only remaining tourists
Say goodbye to grandeur in Parthenon.
Once again, the streets claim significance at night
Because the altered ugliness is now interesting,
Dogs waiting to cross the streets with humans,
Little beggars refusing to go home,
Selling tired roses
In crowded cafes that used to be old houses
To couples like you and me.
In time, we have learned
To see in their eyes
that which makes us smile
Despite their cunning cries.