«ROMIOSYNI I»: These trees do not settle for less sky, these stones do not settle under foreign footsteps, these faces do not settle except in the sun, these hearts do not settle except in justice.

This landscape is harsh as silence, it tightens in its bosom its fiery stones, it tightens in the light its orphaned olives and vineyards, it tightens its teeth. There is no water. Only light. The road disappears into the light and the shadow of the wall is iron.

The trees, the rivers, and the voices petrified in the relentless sun. The root stumbles on the marble. The dusty stones. The mule and the rock. They turn green. There is no water. Everyone is thirsty. For years now. Everyone is chewing a bite of sky above their bitterness. Their eyes are red from wakefulness, a deep scar wedged between their eyebrows like a cypress between two mountains at sunset.