DUIRER, INDISCRIMINATE AERIAL BOMBINGS BY THE GERMANS, AND A GREEK POEM/POET

 IN THIS WEBPAGE HELLENIC POETRY PRESENTS AN INTERESTING ARTICLE ABOUT AN INTERESTING POEM/POET:

In 1941, in the face of horrifying devastation caused by indiscriminate aerial bombings by the Germans, the modern Greek poet Nikos Gatsos wrote from the immediate knowledge of someone who had witnessed the obliteration of a Greek village. He, too, went directly to the famous engraving and dedicated his poem, Death and the Knight, “To the memory of Duirer.

[…]

Sienkiewicz wrote historically. In 1941, in the face of horrifying devastation caused by indiscriminate aerial bombings by the Germans, the modern Greek poet Nikos Gatsos wrote from the immediate knowledge of someone who had witnessed the obliteration of a Greek village. He, too, went directly to the famous engraving and dedicated his poem, Death and the Knight, “To the memory of Duirer.

” As I behold you motionless

Traveling through the ages with the steed of Akritas

and the lance of Saint George,

I would place at your side

These dark forms that shall attend you eternally

Until one day you too will vanish with them forever

Until you become a fire again in the great Chance

that gave you birth,

I would place at your side A

bitter-orange tree from the snow covered meadows

of the moon

And would unfold before you the veil of an evening

With the red Heart of Scorpio singing of youth

With the River of the Heaven pouring into August

And with the North Star weeping and growing cold;

I would place pasture lands,

Streams that once watered the lilies of Germany,

And I would deck this iron you wear

With a sprig of basil and a spray of rosemary

With the weapons of Plapoutas and the sabers of Nikitaras.

But I who saw your descendants tearing

The sky of my country like birds, one drawn in

And saw the cypresses of the Morea grow silent

There on the plain of Nafplion

Before the ready embrace of the wounded sea

Where the centuries battled with the crosses

of gallantry

Shall now place at your side

The embittered eyes of a child

And the closed eyelids

In the mud and blood of Holland.

This black land

Shall one day grow green again.

The iron hand of GOtz will overturn the carts

It will load them with sheaves of barley and rye

And in the dark forests with their dead loves

There where time has turned a virginal leaf to stone

On breasts where a rosetree trembled, hung with tears,

A silent star shall shine like a spring daisy.

But you shall remain motionless

Traveling through the ages with the steed of Akritas

and the lance of Saint George

A restless hunter from the generation of heroes

With these dark forms that shall attend you eternally

Until one day you too will vanish with them forever

Until you become a fire again in the great Chance

that gave you birth

Until in river caverns shall resound again

The heavy hammers of patience

Not for rings or swords

But for shares and plows.

[trans. by Kimon Friar]

Written during the German-Italian occupation, this poem adds an ironic and denunciatory variation to the literature stemming from Duirer’s work. The transposition is not faithful like Jarrell’s, horrific like Hugo’s, admonitory however firm like Borges’, or accusatory like that of Sienkiewicz. Gatsos’ denunciation is bitter. As a member of the “Generation of 1930,” he was around thirty at the time; he shuddered at the many atrocities, including the saturation or carpet bombing of the village. The impression made by the abysmal suffering must have been poignant, because apart from many lyrics of popular music and bouzouki wrote only three serious poems, and his most moning among them is Death and the Knight.

A few words of background may be advisable situate the poem literarily. The generation of 1930 poets, divorcing itself from the the affectations of previous styles of expression, created a new, frugal idiom, using the living demotic tongue honed to purity and leanness, and devoid of the historical embellishments commonly used by other worthy poets like Constantine Cavafis and Andreas Kalvos. The most eloquent new exponent of the new aesthetic was George Seferis, whose books of poems, Turning Point and Logbook of 1931 and 1940 respectively, struck a note of torment, of tragic decay, certainly of anxiety and apprehension. As it turned out, it was a prophetic apprehension of  what we know happened in Europe and elsewhere between 1939 and 1945, and one which, by being so rooted in Greek soil “with the monuments and contemporary sorrow” as we read in The King ofAsine15 [Logbook, 1940]), may share some of the universal existential attitudes common in the 1940s, but remains too personal and “Hellenic” to share all of them. But Gatsos them. However, as Linos Politis observes, (16) but Seferis anxiety is without panic and a sense of courage comes through. The poem, The Thrush (1944), using the name of a ship sunk by the Germans in the harbor of the island of Poros, reflects philosophically, through the use of symbols, on the mysteries of life sides like two of the same coin, and on the dual nature of light whose other profile is darkness. Light and Day he describes in The Thrush “angelic and black.” These modes echo in Gatsos’ poem by virtue of the “dark forms” and the “fire,” the “dark “shin[ing] star.”

Such echoes suggest how much Seferis and Gatsos have in common. Through their mastery of “the demotic plest, most uncompromising form”,” they share stylistic concerns; through their symbolic relationship between imagery related to the French symbolist movement of the previous century, they share stylistic concerns; and through their sense of a symbiotic relationship between myth and actuality together with the philosophical anguish with which they viewed their traditional and rich birthright as Greeks they they share spiritual concerns. Gatsos recognized this shared sensibility when in 1963 he dedicated a poem, Old-Fashioned Balllad, to George Seferis: “Time flows into time … then you came by and carved a fountain / for the old shipwrecked sailing man…Resurrection is long in coming . . . but on dream’s balcony I walk.”

But whereas Seferis’ language is restrained in handling personal emotions, Gatsos’ is not. Poignant expressive images convert a personally-felt drama into tragedy. Aesthetically, if we think of Andre Breton’s Manifeste du Surrebalisme of 1924, the poem Death and the Knight betrays elements of Surrealism that surprisingly made their way into Greece in 1935 with Andreas Embirikos’ The Blast Furnace. To a large extent, this consisted in automatic writing, writing that releases from the subconscious a number of logically disconnected images to produce not a meaning but a sensation.(18) Yet, in the Duirer-inspired poem, Gatsos reacts so profoundly to the German air-strikes that discernible meaning perforates the surrealistic sensation. This does not happen, for example, in his most famous, most discussed, most controversial and hermetic poem, Amorghos (1943), a tender, elegiac lament, with dazzling and fantastic images, in search of an evanescent beauty. Amorghos is lyrical and abstruse to the core; it invites hermeneutical decoding.

Death and the Knight is not like Amorghos. It speaks directly to the Teutonic rider whose apparel reminds Gatsos momentarily of two Christian referents: the horse of the tenth-century Byzantine hero Vasilios Dhiyenis Akritas,(19) and the lance or sword of the third-century martyr from Cappadocia, St. George. Duirer’s engraving portrays him “motionless,” but, as we have noted, his meaning has been “traveling through the ages” (Panofsky speaks of a “moving monument”[I 154]) from the Renaissance to our century when the Knight’s descendants have subjected Gatsos’ compatriots to unseemly suffering. The “dark forms” of Death and the Devil at his side will “attend [him] eternally” until such ugliness is gone and light returns. As suggested, this sounds like a variation of Seferis’ double nature of light: first, “angelic” or Christian originally in Duirer’s concept, then “black” in the context of the Occupation, and eventually bright turning motif of “fire,” as it relates to purging.

In the manner of automatic writing, Gatsos nature images of tormenting nostalgia, beginning anges and embracing in a dark “veil of an what might be but, alas, is now “weeping unpromising like the contaminated streams that state, “watered the lilies of Germany.” In poet would make healthy or nurturing the knight’s nous armor with “a sprig of basil and a spray herbs in Greek cuisine, to be sure, but more hope and resurrection. And, less lyrically would conjure up the weapons of two Greek War of Independence, Plapoutas and Nikitaras, in their idealism than Duirer’s knight in his barbarism.

The surrealistic touches stop here. War and Surrealism’s dream. Gatsos was too personally involved not to demand more specificity of himself Amorghos, written shortly after Death and the images of terror taken from the Occupation, to its Heraclitean inspiration from the idea that but all flows and nothing abides. Within this work, “Amorghos” can afford to juxtapose two worlds, that of occupational terror and that There, in Amorghos, images more lyrical than ows, youth-singing, and autumnal rivers Knight” convey a little more hope. There blossoming branches, an evening star, flowers, like swans, musical sounds from bagpipes and foamed sea, diamonds, the morning songs the final verse, “many precious stones in are, too, what Kimon Friar describes as “delirious like those to be found in a canvas by Hyeronimus birds, foliage vomits tears, devils mount dogs,” theme of the poem is the presence of evil and world, “counterpointed with a wistful, compassionate tive evocation of hope” (Friar 81-2).

But, as in the title Death and the Knight where to precede “Knight,” the reality of evil and destruction makes Gatsos more specific and concrete when the poetic modulates to the political perception of

your descendants tearing

The sky of my country like birds

introduced by the defiant phrase “But I who saw … there on the plain of Nafplion.”(20) At this point, whatever was surrealistic in  his verses becomes expressionistic. The tormenting nostalgia of the earlier what-might-be collapses like the “cypresses of the MOREA… before … the wounded sea” (where “gallantry” nobler than the German shined), and yields to the “eyes of a child,” eyelids embittered and closed, “In the mud and blood of Holland.” Here emerges a preambulary comment on later Nazi crimes in Greece to be sure, but also an ironic reminder that Duirer’s engraving was inspired by Erasmus of Rotterdam’s ideal Christian knight. (21) Here in the poem, the “black” turns briefly “angelic”:

This black land

Shall one day see green again.

And green is the hue of hope, say refoliation. The original “fire,” in the form of the admirable Germanic hero GOtz,(22) Will provide nourishment, like outgrowths of the basil and rosemary: “barley and rye” in juxtaposition to the stoney vegetation of that dark forest “where time has turned,” where Duirer’s knight’s hour-glass has run its course. Now perhaps there is a trembling “rosetree,” a “silent star,” shining expressionistically “like a spring daisy.”

Now that Gatsos has deplored oppression, he feels it appropriate to recollect the poetic journey: he repeats musically the opening refrain of the motionless traveler, the steed of Akritas, the lance of St. George, the dark forms that become fire again. And the world, through forebearing “patience,” will disavow the divinities of Germanic mythology, the Nibelungs, who forge “rings and swords” in their caverns along the Rhine River, and it will convert them instead into green “shares and plows” along the lines of Isaiah (2:4) in the Bible. We probably have a right to surmise that Duirer intended his engraving to express the universal message of Christian truth, and, without minimizing its universality, we may also see Gatsos’ conversion of it into a personal message of human experience as equally plausible within the immediate historical context. If this method seems subversive, in that it undermines the artist’s original intent, so be it. Such is the nature and vitality of art. But more than the other poets reviewed here, Gatsos modernizing the message of Sienkiewicz, transcends immediate reality. For ultimately, his message concerns not Teutonic knights or Stuka bombers but more broadly the potential evil in man. And the point is made symbolically universal through direct, demotic verses. A certain reverberation of undertones and undertones does make the reader glimpse elusive meanings, as Friar says of Seferis (71), but as the imagery becomes more and more gloomy the message becomes clearer and clearer. Yet a small faith protects Gatsos-as it had not protected Kostas  Karyotakis (23)-from despair and nihilism. The image of “the spring daisy” acquires more moving significance.

Five years before Gatsos’ poem, the first publicly decried saturation bombing in history leveled the ancient capital of the Basques in northern Spain during that country’s Civil War.(24) The grim and wanton destruction wrought on innocent human beings induced Pablo Picasso to paint his renowned Guernica in 1937 for the Pavilion of the Spanish Republic at the Paris International Exposition.(25) In associating the Gatsos poem with the Picasso painting, it may look as if I were shifting from a phenomenological exegesis to an impressionistic inference, except for the fact that the spiritual relationship between the poem and this painting is quite tangible. The poet may or may not have taken a first-hand cue from the painter (only four years separate their works), but their mutual emotional and moral experiences do not make the resemblances unexpected. That Gatsos, who visited France often, was unaware of Guernica would be hard to believe, especially since he admired Garcia Lorca who decried the slaughter (and some of whose plays he was to translate), and since Picasso’s painting, seminal in its impact, was immediately broadcast throughout the artistic world. But such speculation is not the point. For in both works we may discern a surprising number of analogous details, sufficient, in fact, to allow us to say that conscious refiguration of Duirer’s engraving, it is also a subscious reformulation of Picasso’s painting.

Similarities, both superficial and pronounced, abound. Guernica and Death and the Knight imprecate against the destruction of life and damn the sight of a blood-washed homeland. Neither work aims for objective distancing, in that the specifically hateful events rained upon the people of Greece and of Spain are addressed with an emotion that is overt and palpable-more implosive in the poet and more explosive in the painter, but equally distressing. Both artists, like Seferis, are weighed down by a sense of hopelessness   and despair which, judging by a sparse seeding of heeds to the contrary (like the daisy, as I have already suggested), they seem to refuse to accept. Both manipulate not a series of occurrences, but a series of powerful metaphors. Although, by the very nature of their different modes of expression, linguistic description lacks the immediacy of graphic representation, both succeed equally in demonstrating an ugly drama of cruelty, anguish and terror. Both renditions are literally dark. Regardless of Gatsos’ images of fire, a citrus tree, a red Heart of Scorpio, and lilies, all of which in no way create color tonalities, the dominant chromatic mood is “This black land” (hopefully “to grow green again” that “unfolds … the veil of an evening.” Gatsos rejects the colored palette of lyric poets, much the way Picasso rejects the techniques of perspective, color, and dimensional  chiaroskouro which would give the canvas an illusion of three-dimensional depth) by composing an illustration with nothing but blacks, whites, and  grays (hence its two-dimensionality).

Analogical meanings emerge from this refusal of coloration  feelings of stark tragedy that the use of colors would have made  less poignant-and thus a dramatic tone is established. Here in Picasso, flattened, two-dimensional forms  and spaces bespeak muted terror. Symbols, consequently, inform our viewing, dirrecting our understanding toward savagery and injustice. Picasso’s is a prophetic vision in 1937 of what happens to Gatsos’ village 1941. Without reaching epic proportions, but perhaps more dire because of this, a feeling akin to tragic legend implants itself in the woeful reality of the two towns. As Philip Yenawine notes appropriately, in Guernica we face, not the heroism of Homer’s  Iliad, but the desolated despair of Euripides’ Trojan Women. (26) In the general context of Greek tragedy, what come to mind are the condemning words delivered by Athena, denouncing what the Furies have wrought, in AEschylus’ Eumenides:

that ravenous horror,

Its hideous roar [when]

[…]

the dust drink[s] up

The dark of the people’s blood

[…]

Slaughter for slaughter and ruin

Raging over the town

If Duirer tries to portray meaning, enticed by Erasmus’ vie of Christian virtus, Picasso tries to portray being, “the slaughter for for slaughter” of Civil War fratricide, through figures of terrifying eloquence, both for what they stand for symbolically and for what they are narratively.(27) By way of similarities, Duirer’s, Picasso’s, and Gatsos’ works are dominated by transcendent Christian symbols and immanent moral values. The levels blend, such is, to be sure, the nature of allegory, ancient and suffering generated by war has always provided emotional, conceptual and formal themes for ethical and aesthetic expression, because pictorial and poetic structures say a great deal more than socio-political essays in that they create great allegories whose messages reach beyond contingency. (28)

[…]

Similarly, twisted faces and screaming mouths would suggest, as in the poem, a humanity that suffers and a humaneness that has been mutilated.

[…]

Or that Picasso’s wildly singing bird on the left, shrieking its message of atrocity reminds us of Gatsos’ “singing of youth,” but more likely, in its wildness, of the bombing “birds” that flattened the village. These birds, such a comparison would suggest, are hardly symbolic doves for they hover in the darkness.

[…]

Yet, ultimately, a sense of struggling hope prevails when we discern one focal, important detail. We note that at bottom  center the dead freedom-fighter’s hand still clutches a broken sword. And with this image, I conclude my parallel. For with utmost expressionistic force, however surrealistically programmed, Picasso suggests what Gatsos would have liked to hear: a continuing energy echoing from the work, “the heavy hammers of patience” that will replace the Nibelungs’ “rings and swords” “with Isaiah’s “shares and plows.” This green hope, like a momentary glimpse of beauty in Seferis’ poem Mythistorima where  a girl plucks a daisy, is the “spring daisy” in Gatsos’ Death and the Knight, which is in turn the daisy silently growing out of the  sword-clutching hand in Picasso’s Guernica. The humble moral image is the seminal link between Greek poet and Spanish painter. Death and rebirth: the bloom, not unlike the modest broom plant  in Leopardi’s famous poem La ginestra in its human relevance is, the only consolation they can offer in a derelict and agrieved world.

[..]

Whatever the weird use of words and shapes in today’s aesthetics, we still recognize human reality through them, as they speak to us with anguished pathos of our perennial hope for renewal.

University ofCalifornia, Rivers

 Refractions of a Knight: Nikos Gatsos in Relation to Dürer and Picasso
Author(s): Jean-Pierre Barricelli
Source: South Atlantic Review, Vol. 62, No. 1 (Winter, 1997), pp. 43-64

Ὁ ἱππότης καὶ ὁ θάνατος

Ἀπὸ Σπύρου Κοκκίνη, «Ἀνθολογία Νεοελληνικῆς Ποίησης» 6η ἔκδ.
Ἔκδ. Ι.Δ. ΚΟΛΛΑΡΟΥ & ΣΙΑΣ Α.Ε., Ἀθῆναι 2000.

(1513) Καθὼς σὲ βλέπω ἀκίνητο
Μὲ τοῦ Ἀκρίτα τ᾿ ἄλογο καὶ τὸ κοντάρι τοῦ Ἅη-Γιωργιοῦ νὰ ταξιδεύεις στὰ χρόνια
Μπορῶ νὰ βάλω κοντά σου
Σ᾿ αὐτὲς τiς σκοτεινὲς μορφὲς ποὺ θὰ σὲ παραστέκουν αἰώνια
Ὥσπου μιά μέρα νὰ σβηστεῖς κι ἐσὺ παντοτινὰ μαζί τους
Ὥσπου νὰ γίνεις πάλι μιά φωτιὰ μὲς στὴ μεγάλη Τύχη ποὺ σὲ γέννησε
Μπορῶ νὰ βάλω κοντά σου
Μιὰ νεραντζιὰ στοῦ φεγγαριοῦ τοὺς χιονισμένους κάμπους
Καὶ τὸ μαγνάδι μιᾶς βραδιᾶς νὰ ξεδιπλώσω μπροστά σου
Μὲ τὸν Ἀντάρη κόκκινο νὰ τραγουδάει τὰ νιάτα
Μὲ τὸ Ποτάμι τ᾿ Οὐρανοῦ νὰ χύνεται στὸν Αὔγουστο
Καὶ μὲ τ᾿ Ἀστέρι τοῦ Βοριᾶ νὰ κλαίει καὶ νὰ παγώνει—
Μπορῶ νὰ βάλω λιβάδια
Νερὰ ποὺ κάποτε πότισαν τὰ κρῖνα τῆς Γερμανίας
Κι αὐτὰ τὰ σίδερα ποὺ φορεῖς μπορῶ νὰ σοῦ τὰ στολίσω
Μ᾿ ἕνα κλωνὶ βασιλικὸ κι ἕνα ματσάκι δυόσμο
Μὲ τοῦ Πλαπούτα τ᾿ ἄρματα καὶ τοῦ Νικηταρᾶ τὶς πάλλες.
Μὰ ἐγὼ ποὺ εἶδα τοὺς ἀπογόνους σου σὰν πουλιὰ
Νὰ σκίζουν μιάν ἀνοιξιάτικη αὐγὴ τὸν οὐρανὸ τῆς πατρίδας μου
Κι εἶδα τὰ κυπαρίσσια τοῦ Μοριᾶ νὰ σωπαίνουν
Ἐκεῖ στὸν κάμπο τοῦ Ἀναπλιοῦ
Μπροστὰ στὴν πρόθυμη ἀγκαλιὰ τοῦ πληγωμένου πελάγου
Ὅπου οἱ αἰῶνες πάλευαν μὲ τοὺς σταυροὺς τῆς παλληκαριᾶς
Θὰ βάλω τώρα κοντά σου
Τὰ πικραμένα μάτια ἑνὸς παιδιοῦ
Καὶ τὰ κλεισμένα βλέφαρα
Μέσα στὴ λάσπη καὶ τὸ αἷμα τῆς Ὀλλανδίας.

Αὐτὸς ὁ μαῦρος τόπος
Θὰ πρασινίσει κάποτε.
Τὸ σιδερένιο χέρι τοῦ Γκὲτς θ᾿ ἀναποδογυρίσει τ᾿ ἁμάξια
Θὰ τὰ φορτώσει θημωνιὲς ἀπὸ κριθάρι καὶ σίκαλη
Καὶ μὲς στοὺς σκοτεινοὺς δρυμοὺς μὲ τὶς νεκρὲς ἀγάπες
Ἐκεῖ ποὺ πέτρωσε ὁ καιρὸς ἕνα παρθένο φύλλο
Στὰ στήθια ποὺ σιγότρεμε μιά δακρυσμένη τριανταφυλλιὰ
Θὰ λάμπει ἕνα ἄστρο σιωπηλὸ σὰν ἀνοιξιάτικη μαργαρίτα.

Μὰ σὺ θὰ μένεις ἀκίνητος
Μὲ τοῦ Ἀκρίτα τ᾿ ἄλογο καὶ τὸ κοντάρι τ᾿ Ἅη-Γιωργιοῦ θὰ ταξιδεύεις στὰ χρόνια
Ἕνας ἀνήσυχος κυνηγὸς ἀπ᾿ τὴ γενιὰ τῶν ἡρῴων
Μ᾿ αὐτὲς τὶς σκοτεινὲς μορφὲς ποὺ θὰ σὲ παραστέκουν αἰώνια
Ὥσπου μιὰ μέρα νὰ σβηστεῖς καὶ σὺ παντοτεινὰ μαζί τους
Ὥσπου νὰ γίνεις πάλι μιὰ φωτιὰ μὲς στὴ μεγάλη Τύχη ποὺ σὲ γέννησε
Ὥσπου καὶ πάλι στὶς σπηλιὲς τῶν ποταμιῶν ν᾿ ἀντηχήσουν
Βαριὰ σφυριὰ τῆς ὑπομονῆς
Ὄχι γιὰ δαχτυλίδια καὶ σπαθιὰ
Ἀλλὰ γιὰ κλαδευτήρια κι ἀλέτρια.

THE KNIGHT AND THE DEATH

Καθώς σε βλέπω ακίνητο
με του Ακρίτα τ’ άλογο και το κοντάρι τ’ Άη Γιωργιού να ταξιδεύεις στα χρόνια
μπορώ να βάλω κοντά σου
μια νερατζιά στου φεγγαριού τους χιονισμένους κάμπους
κι αυτά τα σίδερα που φορείς μπορώ να σου τα στολίσω
μ’ ένα κλωνί βασιλικό κι ένα ματσάκι δυόσμο.
Μα έγω που είδα τους απογόνους σου σαν πουλιά
να σκίζουν μιαν ανοιξιάτικη αυγή τον ουρανό της πατρίδας μου
θα βάλω τώρα κοντά σου
τα πικραμένα μάτια ενός παιδιού
μέσα στη λάσπη και το αίμα της Ολλανδίας.

Αυτός ο μαύρος τόπος
θα πρασινίσει κάποτε.
Το σιδερένιο χέρι του Γκετς θ’ αναποδογυρίσει τ’ αμάξια
θα τα φορτώσει θημωνιές από κριθάρι και σίκαλη
και τότε πάλι στις σπηλιές των ποταμών θ’ αντηχήσουν
βαριά σφυριά της υπομονής
όχι για δαχτυλίδια και σπαθιά
αλλά για κλαδευτήρια κι αλέτρια.

 Το Ιππότης, Θάνατος και Διάβολος είναι ένα από τα τρία αξιολογότερα χαρακτικά του Άλμπρεχτ Ντύρερ.

 Κεντρική μορφή στο τοπίο είναι ένας ιππότης με πλήρη πανοπλία καβάλα σε άλογο. Η κεφαλή του αλόγου είναι άψογα επεξεργασμένη και με μεγάλη λεπτομέρεια των ανατομικών χαρακτηριστικών. Πιστός συνοδός του ιππότη είναι ένας σκύλος, όπως συνηθίζεται στα έργα του Ντύρερ, ενώ στο κάτω δεξιό άρθρο του πίνακα μια σαύρα τρέπεται σε φυγή. Ο Θάνατος εικονίζεται γενειοφόρος, λιπόσαρκος αναβάτης ενός γέρικου αλόγου. Κρατάει στο χέρι μια κλεψύδρα. Ο τερατόμορφος Διάβολος έχει χαρακτηριστικά γνωρίσματα διαφόρων ζώων. Η εικόνα φέρει μια ταμπέλα με το μονόγραμμα του καλλιτέχνη και το έτος κατασκευής. Η ταμπέλα είναι τοποθετημένη στις ρίζες ενός κομμένου δέντρου, με μια νεκροκεφαλή επάνω της. Το άλογο του ιππότη φαίνεται ότι βαδίζει σε ένα δρομάκι μέσα σε ξέφωτο, ενώ στο βάθος διακρίνουμε μια πόλη στην κορυφή ενός λόφου.

 Στο έργο αυτό αναφέρεται το ποίημα “Ο ιππότης κι ο θάνατος” του Νίκου Γκάτσου που μελοποιήθηκε από τον Μάνο Χατζιδάκι και περιελήφθη στον κύκλο τραγουδιών “Τα παράλογα”. WIKIPEDIA

GERMANY BOMBING GREECE 1941

 Documentary on the Controversial Bombing of Germany in WWII