They say the waves at the shore, where foam meets the sand,
That once upon a time, no foam there did stand.
Until an old blind woman, knitting night and day,
Her sorrows and her joys of life in thread would lay,
Showed them to the sea, and the sea, in envy’s gleam,
Took up those crafts and donned them as foam’s white seam.

Upon the wet sand lay a ragged patchwork old,
Just enough for Tasso’s to sit, cross-legged and bold,
Knitting with her needles, tirelessly she toiled,
On her left, a pouch held the ball of yarn unspoiled,
To the right, a larger bag where her art was kept neat,
White lace stretched in meters, her gift to complete.

Before her, the waves shaped forms, figures anew,
She seemed to breathe them in and weave their shapes true,
Her needles flew back and forth like whispered song,
Each morning at the same spot, all day long.
Summer or winter, always near the sea’s embrace,
Through heat and cold, the yarn danced, the stitches traced.

Countless hours bore her effort, weeks and years spun,
If you looked, she never glanced at what she’d done.
Her pale blue eyes fixed on the endless sea’s expanse,
Sometimes she’d pause and breathe in salt’s expanse.
Sensing iodine and brine within her soul’s deep core,
Then her weathered hands would stir to weave once more.

She murmured oft, a song behind her worn lips,
A prayer to the gods of wind and ocean’s ships,
That weather stay kind, that sailors stand tall on shore,
Or maybe she wove her own griefs and more.
Her small story stitched in loops and lace,
Her pains, her joys — letters she could not trace.

She knitted from a child, as all children do,
Running carefree all day in the sun’s bright hue,
Learning to fish with line, bread dough as bait,
Catching mullets, bream, perch — a basket great.
So proud she brought them home with a beaming smile,
Dreaming of boarding ships, leaving the isle.

Her old man cursed and raged, forbade her to roam,
“How can a girl sail ships? Stay here, make a home!”
His words rhymed, she danced, blowing a conch shell loud,
Sending her wild hellos, laughing out loud.

She was promised to Fanis, the grocer’s stout son,
Whose belly first peeked out when the day was done.
She hated him deeply, not a man for her hand,
Better to drown her youth than live on his land.
Her mother caught her fainting and brought her home near,
Back to their poor house, to live year by year.

The harbor’s beloved girl, sailors would claim,
Their old man would shake his head, curse by name,
But she ruled the fish stalls, greeting every day,
Sending off orders like a tempest’s sway.
Never took money, yet the fishermen gave,
For they feared losing the girl who so bravely gave.

Once they even loathed fish from her shack’s shore,
For Tassos, slender and skilled, who gave so much more.
Then love came flying, shooting arrows sharp,
As stories say, just like a harp,
Tall, kind, with a smile warm and bright,
A sailor dressed, stepped down from the light.

They bumped in the market, fish spilled on the floor,
Both bent to gather, eyes met, sparks soared.
A fire sparked amidst the scent of the sea,
Hearts warmed, grey clouds fled silently.
Flowers, perfume, smiles shared in sweet exchange,
Two souls entwined, love’s first strange range.

Now she knits with tears washing salt from her face,
Perhaps seeing boats and kisses that time can’t replace.
Like two birds through winter, hiding their nest,
In a storage room where dreams found rest.
Worn nets and baskets, two blankets for bed,
A jar of water to thin wine they shed.

Walls and floors cold and bare,
Plans and promises whispered in care.
With touches and glances, hearts spoke aloud,
And nights lost meaning, time unbowed.
But blessed are those who don’t see the sand
As the hourglass empties, slipping from hand.

For love’s sand was saved, the sailor left alone,
Hidden in a merchant ship’s hold, far from home.
Tears told him to leave as he had come,
The Captain’s stern words: “If not, stay and become
A landbound man, stuck in the dust.”

She searched the harbor by day and night,
Seeking love’s proof, praying with all her might,
Pledging gold to saints and demons alike,
Promising to crown whoever helped strike.
Her thoughts clouded with sin’s heavy weight,
Wondering how they had sealed her fate.

She knit as her belly swelled, love’s holy sign,
Running errands, never tired, her spirit divine.
With child on her lap, leading all with grace,
Tassos, worn yet strong, bore life’s embrace.
She bore her son alone on Epiphany’s day,
In the harbor, beautiful in every way.

His eyes held his father’s deep, clear blue,
Her tears washed his blood away, tender and true.
Named Fotis — light in her darkness and pain,
She raised him alone through hardship and rain.
Fotis grew bright, sharp, and strong,
Loved blue as his first sight all along.

Teachers marveled at his clever mind,
Though he drowned his heart and soul in brine.
“At sixteen, I’ll go find my father,” he said,
“To become a captain, with courage ahead.”
Tassos broke down, wept bitter and long,
Though she knew his fate was hard and strong.

At dawn, she wore her black once more,
The clothes she first donned when love turned sore.
One day at the market, word spread wide,
Her boy had boarded a ship to the tide.
Next day she paced the shore, restless and pale,
Staring long at the blue sea’s trail.

Inside, a fire burned, fury and pain,
Cursing the magic that sent men away in vain.
She shouted curses; the sea replied,
Only they understood what each other implied.
Exhausted, she fell silent, whispering low,
Sending murmurs to the blue below.

Letters from abroad thinned out with time,
Those who knew her said she’d aged like wine.
Her black clothes stayed on, her hair turned white,
She fell ill in cold, lost her light.
Blind Tassos wandered alone on the shore,
With her embroidery and cane, murmuring more.

Children who did not know her tale
Called her crazy, wild, and frail.
Yet she smiled within, lips trembling wide,
Like a kindly old fool, with cane as her guide.
Knitting from dawn to dusk, hearing waves’ song,

The cries of seagulls, the ships passing along.
She broke down often, thinking of Fotis,
Cursing the waters that steal men’s promise.
The blue sea roared, storms brewed anew,
As mother and son argued through mist and dew.
One dawn, late sun shining weak and pale,
Two engineers found her cold and frail.

They called for doctors; neighbors came near,
Opened her door to find work everywhere.
Miles of knitting spread across the floor,
Her holy craft, her passion’s core.
They bathed her remains, the house gleamed bright,
As if someone had cleaned it through the night.

Years later, Fotis returned from afar,
A grown man, with family and star.
He sought his mother, tears in his eyes,
Searching for scents of his childhood skies.
He found a tangled ball of her knitted past,
On a chair, needles left at last.

He wrapped the cloth to his face, soft and warm,
Felt his mother’s hands in the fabric’s form.
He wept bitter tears of memory and love,
Unfolding the story stitched by her glove.
Letters united in secret designs,

Words formed sentences, whispers and signs.
The tale spoke of Tassos’ life at sea,
Of Fotis’ journey and their family tree.
The heart-stopping ending froze him in place,
The final lines told of today’s embrace—
Mother and child at the café, waiting still,
For the sailor’s return, against time’s will.
At last, he held the handiwork dear,
And walked to the shore as dusk drew near.

There, he laid it down, whispering “Forgive,”
Returning it to the sea where his mother lived.

They say the waves at the shore, where foam meets the sand,
That once upon a time, no foam there did stand.
Until an old blind woman, knitting night and day,
Her sorrows and her joys of life in thread would lay,
Showed them to the sea, and the sea, in envy’s gleam,
Took up those crafts and donned them as foam’s white seam.