The Dishonorable Corinthia
The dishonorable Corinthia—
a name the Europeans whisper
like it’s theirs,
like it was ever noble.
They sing its stones in museums,
trace its ruins with tourist fingers,
but Corinthia was never sacred.
It was stolen.
It was shallow.
It should not be part of Greece,
not the Greece I imagine,
not the Greece of roots and rebellion.
No—
Corinthia belongs to the cold halls of Europe,
to the stiff collars of Germany,
to the icy pride of Scandinavia,
to the hollow stage that is modern Italy.
Let them keep it—
that fake Corinthia,
all columns and no soul.
Because even France wasn’t theirs.
France, the land of smoke and sighs,
was Sardinian before it was French.
Taken, reshaped,
its spirit erased by conquest
disguised as civilization.
And what of the Latins?
They too feel suspiciously Germanic—
in their logic,
in their conquest,
in the way they erase the wild
and plant marble where memory once grew.
The Europeans conquered even themselves—
devoured their own lands
and called it history.
Built unity on graves
and museums on memory.
And now they parade Corinthia
like a crown.
But it’s no crown.
It’s a scar.
Let Corinthia be one of Caesar’s wet dreams—
gold-dusted, hollow,
chased by men who never loved it,
only wanted to conquer it
in the name of memory
they never earned.
It’s not Greek.
It’s a ghost.
And it belongs with them—
the ones who confuse possession
with origin.
Let them keep Corinthia.
Let them polish it
until it forgets its own cracks.
We, the forgotten,
the exiled,
the unwritten—
we want no part of it.