Syros

Desolation appears on the horizon An island of rock without trees, without plants. Mile after mile goes by. The scene continues without remorse.

From a distance no living thing relieves the initial impression. But there, high above the rock-bound shore a green spot, and then when closer, three white houses nest in the glimmer of dawn's light.

Nothing more. The dream-like setting fades as if it never were. The desolation remains.

Now a line creases the mountainside, a rocky line of demarcation. Another mile and the number of lines increases. Long, sinuous stonewalls cut across the barren landscape. What do they hold in? Or out? What purpose requires this distinction? Nothingness is nothing more.

Power lines etch the sky. Now a road leading nowhere. A few dwellings hug the shoreline as the ferryboat angles toward the other side of the island.

Wondrously, a town comes into view. A large town situated on two distinct hillsides. The landscape remains the same but the hand of man has notched a place on the rocky almost desolate island. A church stands high on each of the hillsides comforted and nourished by the houses cropped tightly beneath them leading down to the waterfront where we briefly dock.

Syros, what purpose brought these artifacts of humanity to your unconquerable landscape? The trees are not yours.

- Charles Martell

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