A Sun that kills

A sun that kills ….

Fahrenheit, 
                one hundred and twelve degrees. 

On deck, away from home and no one sees, 

how the sun of the Persian Gulf, 

                                         [is burning my head,
and that of life at sea I feel half dead.

Arabian Golf, loading crude oil...

I do dream some day of walking on solid soil,

able to breathe air without noxious gases,

without vapors from crude oil and molasses..

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* Extract from "The Broken Mooring Line", an experiential
poetic work // page c   // e-mail: pmataragas@yahoo.com //
Texts and Narration: Odysseus Heavilayias - ROTTERDAM //
Language adjustments and text adaptation: Kellene G Safis - CHICAGO//
Digital adaptation and text editing: Cathy Rapakoulia Mataraga - PIRAEUS

source

 Utopia