Into the lion’s mouth

Down there, at the end of the descent, right before ascending once again towards the upper region «that of the wealthy». Right there. Beneath the lion busts, Vassilis had his first kiss. At the cemetery. Right there he experienced the first night that he wished to never end and night remain. A night with its people fast asleep and him with Vaggelió in his embrace; kissing her on the cheeks, the lips, the eyes; feeling his face burn all through his meninges; longing for the lions’ muzzles to open in spouts. Water and kisses. He wished for nothing more. The water to wash out the burn, the kisses to sweeten the lips. But when the light started to change, playing strange games with the statues and the trees, Vaggeliό started to glance around her sideways. «Vassilis I am not staying here any longer. I’m taking my lips and I am leaving». And as they stood up, they run downhill hotfoot and tacitly —in a way known only to those that yearn it deeply. And as Vassilis looked back, he saw her, his heart, into the lions’ mouths scampering behind them.

Giota Kouitzoglou