Coffee is my immortal life, black like the eye, black like the eye, hazelnut suryp is my wife, sweet and shy, sweet and shy.
On a land born from the ancient yoghurt of Hellas, granola made by grain, from the fields of Ukraine, who, on a less archaic site, with less poetic bite, could have been named “our fellas”.
Three kings rest in this church,
each in royal tombs of soft bread,
underneath spinace birch,
cucumber green and tomato red.