They call you Santorini—
a crescent floating on the azure sea.
They come by ship and ride
your patient beasts of burden awkwardly
up steps of promise to engulf
themselves in swarms of souvenirs.
They dine at cliff-side restaurants
while you hold back your brimming tears.
They sunbathe on your beaches and
imbibe sweet Santorini wines,
extracted from the dew-flecked grapes,
handpicked from slope-strewn twining vines.
They love your rugged beauty, but
care not about your storied past,
nor that you've seen a golden age,
so bright, so light, it could not last.
For once you were Atlantis—
your songs were sung in grand mythology.
Your slopes climaxed in lofty peak,
your captains sailed the azure sea.
They talked with kings and carried home
treasures from both far and near.
Your artists painted scenes of life
that were too soon to disappear.
Your women, confident and proud,
kept breasts uncovered, heads held high.
Your scientists, before their time,
knew secrets of the earth and sky.
When rumbles shook your verdant slopes
these people boarded ships and fled.
So when the great explosion came
no one remained; there were no dead.
But monster waves were messengers,
announcing doom to east and west;
announcing end of golden age,
when life was lived with boundless zest.
Where once your mountain raised its head
there ebbs and flows the azure sea,
and all your radiant people are
long since consigned to history.
They call you Santorini—
they gambol on your sun-drenched shore and cliff,
while you, engrossed in glories of
the past, repeat the one word: "If...."