Chapter One: The Epic Continues
Sing to me, oh muse of novels, poems, and plays!
Three hundred and sixty-five: the number of days
Separating this missive from
my last dispatch,
Numerous topics, worthy of mention, did hatch,
But still malicious fate delayed my return,
Convoys of setbacks thwarting any upturn.
Initially monthly – an immature intention!
Then seasonal – to add a quarterly dimension,
But eventually this newsletter became annual,
And yet still there can be no expert manual
To relate Eukalypto's manifold adventures,
And the vagaries of its bilingual ventures.
Between two rounds of bombings, yet impossible to deter,
We lit our three candles the seventh of December,
Praying we won’t read soon Eukalypto’s obituary,
And wondering if our best option was going hara-kiri.
But still it would have been unbelievably tragic,
If circumstances had silenced our words and their magic.
The winter was gloomy: over us, the sword of Damocles,
While sneering creditors had us on our knees.
Unpaid bills, negative equity, it was quite a mess.
We were on the verge of the most terrible distress,
And, to the general public, still sadly incognito,
No major media voice mentioning Eukalypto.
Then, on the sound advice of artificial friends,
We reviewed our organisation, made some amends.
In spring we migrated, from Cyprus to France,
To continue publishing, for you, we took a chance,
And from the depths of this melancholy fog,
Beautiful books we perfected; in happy dialogue,
In October, overseas, with
another wordsmith,
Our footprints spread, forging our myth,
New praising articles, and inch after inch,
Eukalypto’s journey is far from a cinch.
Oh, share, this missive, share, with all your contacts,
And please alert your cherished ones to our tracts!
Youssef
(adapted from French by Sam Gilchrist Hall)