The cradle of civilization, fair Greece, your yoghurt, tomatoes, each tasty little piece, you rose against the Ottomans in Peloponnese, with cucumber, garlic and feta cheese.
The sparkling flames of Muspelheim, oh rose hip soup so red, the chilling cold of Nifelheim, oh vanilla ice cream, the Völva’s dream, the creation of Ymer’s bed.
Long before the baguette, but not before the mozzarella, there was the soldier and his bayonet, and the dream of Italia Bella.
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”.
On distant spagetti-clad earth,
the autumns of bell pepper yellow and red,
the many winters of crème fraîche that once lay ahead,
the springs of cucumber and rebirth.
Three kings rest in this church,
each in royal tombs of soft bread,
underneath spinace birch,
cucumber green and tomato red.
This bread which warm is,
on black Königsberg plate,
a drop from an old barrel of spicy barbeque sauce,
when the hour is late.