When you travel to Greece | Dhruv Trehan

Dear friend,

When you travel to Greece
bring me back nothing
but, a fistful of sand
from the beaches of Santorini.
Hold it in your hands
and let it slip into
the space between your
thumb and index finger.
Let it house itself there
until you’re back into my arms
and once you’re home,
let your fists loose
and let it slither down
from your fingers into mine
like the waters of the Aegean Sea
or verses from the ruins of Delphi.
—
If you still intend
to indulge me even further
and your handbag is light enough
to pass through the stringent norms
of European airport security,
bring me back a pebble
from the remains of the Parthenon
and let it sing to me
and my exasperated ears,
lullabies from a lost democracy
that are laced with phrases
of zealous dissent and obscure philosophy.
—
And if your heart still remains
free from the weight of
Achilles’s despair and Oedipus’s tragedy
and your wallet can bear
another plunder from the
claws of modern economic mediocrity,
only then,
buy me a pitcher
of the most expensive olive oil
and come back home,
to tell me stories of
whatever’s the cheapest available wine
to commemorate the age-old
bardic tradition.