In the winds, old histories tossed,
To speak of it, freedom that’s lost,
From the hill tops Dostoevsky screams aloud,
Lost their God indeed, the proud.
Much can’t say but, tis I tell,
Where is this, that conflicts burst?
Stomachs pinch and throats dost thirst,
Justice they say but, lawless worst!
But who curses thee, if not Daímonaskratía,
Though! Good times borne...
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