By Thomas Page
This is a series of poems of words that do not directly translate into English. I have tried to capture the essence of the word in a poem.
The masks of tragedy hang in the halls of the fortunate
Hoping to mimic the tears of some far-gone person in some godforsaken place
Dressed in the poisoned cloak of Herakles
Crying like Aias cursed by the gods
Why am I a Faustus in a world of Mephistopheles
With eyes as blind as Oedipus the ill-begotten king,
With family as damned as Lear’s,
With a path as lost as a Loman?
They slay a scapegoat and take a bow
With the stage blood and tears running through their leoparded beards
That hide the imbued melancholy
That must be the mixer in the paint of importance