by Lieutenant General (Ret.) Konstantinos Ch. Konstantinidis
Every time I visit Patras,
I gaze upon the broken flowerpot.
It once bore the most beautiful flower,
and the sweetest song.
Scattered dreams, loves, desires,
the years of youth, when we saw visions
shattered by time,
filled with nostalgia, bitterness and pain.
There were betrayals as well,
and hopes that never came to pass.
Life is not built on dreams alone;
it takes struggle, anguish and pain.
Misfortunes and calamities, like Diomedes’ horses—
you try to tame them,
and they tear your heart apart.
Through those bleak years, laden with misery,
we lived, as little children, hungry.
Yet we had principles and values,
escapes to Psila Alonia and the pier
whenever the fleet arrived.
Those harsh wartime years,
when sirens and cannons resounded,
filled our lives with sorrow,
while we, as always, were their eternal victims.
How many obstacles, how many humiliations!
Scylla and Charybdis
seemed determined to crush us,
to tear our young lives apart.
My generation was deprived of play
and of the song of love.
And even now, in the deep twilight of old age,
our struggle grows harsher.
Those years, those years of martyrdom—
how could one endure them?
How can I sing of my lost youth,
when it was utterly dark and wretched?
A lifetime of suffering,
and a soul broken.
Our refugeehood tormented us,
and orphanhood left us humbled.
Then, as we looked up at the stars,
they brought us ominous tidings.
We were born as unwanted children,
amid battlefronts and fortresses,
without soil beneath our feet,
our own flowerpot dry and barren.
And when liberation finally came,
that was when the greatest catastrophe began.
Only the enemy’s collaborators
and the black-marketeers
had selfish and malicious souls.
That accursed National Schism!
Everything has changed now,
brighter, more luminous.
Back then it was dark,
but somehow more natural.
Souls were purer,
the times more romantic.
Only the enemy’s collaborators
had selfish and malicious souls,
and the black-marketeers.
Houses with courtyards, jasmine and daisies—
the apartment blocks demolished it all,
like comets sweeping everything away.
Nothing recalls the old days anymore,
nor the faces I have lost.
And abundant energy has harmed the earth.
If this course continues,
Medusa’s apparition will burn us.
The memory of friends and acquaintances weighs heavily.
Feasts, flirting, friendships,
and Maroudas’ songs—
nostalgia takes your breath away.
When clouds descend upon the city
and not a drop of rain falls,
old memories suddenly spring to life,
from the days when the rain
fell in torrents.
And we, without umbrellas, beneath the arcades,
exchanged glances with the girls we admired.
Now the city is dry and hot,
and you yearn for the old city,
the vanished city.
The arcades are remnants of another age,
when the climate was different.
Even the churches have changed.
The city’s patron saint, a splendid monument,
the magnificent Archaeological Museum—
yet it is impossible for me
to find my old school.
The haunts and entertainments of those days are gone.
The old noble lady has become a tourist attraction.
The factories and industries have disappeared,
from the days when raisin after raisin-filled shiploads
were exported,
and, after liberation, ships brought soybeans
to feed the hungry.
I was a schoolboy then.
I worked during the summer carrying sacks,
so that I could take my wages
to my mother,
may she rest in peace.
The city spreads out like a loukoumas,
over forests, fields and mountains,
to house the multitude
that arrives every day.
Credit to the mayor—he takes care of her,
beautifies every neighborhood,
and in cleanliness he truly excels.
It matters not whom he votes for.
The shoreline has finally been cleaned;
the old industries were serious polluters.
Patras is still waiting for development.
Even Kleomenis’ old wine shop has closed.
Overtourism will bring nothing but pollution.
The Carnival Dionysus shines brightly,
but the Apollonian spirit is missing.
And the Achaean calls for development—
for a metro,
and a solution to the traffic.
Only ghosts and spirits
keep me company in the city.
My eyes keep searching
for the old days, the old shops,
and familiar faces.
But in vain.
Time is merciless;
the fatal entelechy of things
clears away the old and brings the new.
It plays its game beautifully.
Only ghosts can time not destroy,
nor the spirits that accompany you
as you walk alone.
They seem almost to mock you:
“You, ancient old man,
how did you find your way here?
A man from another age!
All your acquaintances,
all the loves of your past,
are beneath the earth,
and you still wander about
like an ageless young man?
Did Zeus make you immortal?
What have you done
to steal longevity?”
You return to the scene of the crime,
your lordship.
Your family was sacrificed
for the sake of the homeland.
And you, alone,
in your old neighborhood.
We endured dark years in our youth,
and even darker old age.
The digital identity…
Yet there are worse things;
we must not complain.
We have lived through three great eras,
and even now we continue to change
and modernize ourselves.
And now that you leave two Muses
standing at your side,
may they too drink water
from the same source,
each in her own time
sending the message of Hellenism
far and wide.
I am grateful to them!
This message has spread across the continents
through Greeks and Philhellenes,
the most experienced among us.
They will continue the work
for humanity and the environment,
moving from “I” to “We,”
without violating the dignity of others;
bringing law and justice
to every oligarch
and every foolish “great man,”
and making money a means
for the benefit of all humanity,
rather than a dragon
that devours your flesh.
With the bombs of Melpomene,
the bell of Nature
rings out mournfully.
(17 August 2026)
Lieutenant General (Ret.) Konstantinos Konstantinidis
Author – Member of the Society of Greek Writers
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