Father’s Day Poem
The following poem was written by Kyriakos Andrinopoulos of Danvers
and submitted to The Sun by Joseph McGuane of Chelmsford
To My Father
And even now, on Father’s Day,
though sixty years have passed,
I see him just as I did then
Though that would be my last.
At Balta, in Morena’s hills
There was a country dance.
My father took me there with him
to share the happenstance.
Though just a boy of seven years
With thick and curly hair,
And dressed in a black scarpina,
I was a young man there.
My father joined a Tsamiko
Which danced around the floor,
Then took my hand and placed in it
The kerchief which he wore.
Then it became my turn to lead
With him to guide the way,
And in his eyes saw the pride
Which beamed from him that day.
Together than we led the line
Of dancers through the room
Mid clapping hands and robust song
Dispelling any gloom.
Soon after that in Agia,
Without a warning sign,
Death’s reaper struck him with his blade
So soon before his time.
Five orphans then were left alone,
No father to replace.
Who’d see their winters turn to spring
Or feel his warm embrace?
We know he’s looking down on us
From Agia’s steep height
Yet even though our grief remains
We’ve comfort in our plight.
That night, that place, the Tsamiko,
Their memories linger still.
And time alone will not erase
The love these thoughts instill.
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