The graffiti furnishes

an apparition of manacles,

the metropolitan kapetanios,

a heritage of desertion to the mountains.
Here the enfilade

gurgled in attic bodies,

the Nazi tirade dislodged

for the Commonwealth titter.
Here the disciplined stance

scoffed at outstretched arms

and the emancipatory partisan

stood with effete vultures.
The memories of Ventimiglia

still stir in the cafés of Exarchia,

and the andartes’ tongues still click

in the boiling migrant camps. 
Some distant conspiracy

still runs its fingers

through the hair of the Voulí,

and, colonel or commissioner,

eats the entrails

of the uprooted.
Little will allay it.

An agon of laudanum

curls the mountain’s haunts

into a clarion of graffiti.