how strange is it, if you come to think about it, that we cannot live our life without the language. Without it nothing makes sense, nothing is worth doing, except perhaps for the instinctive acts.

we live in ourselves for a lifetime, holding hands, smiling, creating memories, relying on unreliable walls, watching our mirror image, remembering those who left and those who have not arrived yet, being strong, being important, being small and trivial, talking, walking, nurturing, choosing

sometimes perhaps you have felt, too, there are two worlds that we struggle to unite. One that we don't know how it really is and one that we do not control; there, the image of the first is being gradually shaped.


i've come to this village to make another attempt. One would believe it to be easier here because of the nature around. Trees, crops, flowers, insects, birds. The clear round image of the moon rising in the horizon. The heat and the rain that smell like land. The air. The sound of the bells on sheep's necks. The absence of mountains and loud sounds, especially at night. Deep darkness and intense brightness everyday during the summer. But


in fact, one might wonder, how is it possible. We are not to stay but for as long it takes to write a poem.

p.s. some days ago, from my father:
the only place where we can be free is language.


in a greek song it is said:

- sea, bitter sea, how can i not love you?


Στο φιλντισένιο μου μαρκούτσι γαλέρες έρχονται και πάνε ρεσάλτα κάνουνε οι μούτσοι κι οι πειρατές μεθοκοπανε στο καπηλειό το λιμανίσιο Θάλασσα πικροθάλασσα γιατί να σ' αγαπήσω Σαρακηνοί και Βενετσάνοι πιάνουν και δένουν στο κατάρτι ελόγου μου τον καπετάν Γιάννη το παλικάρι τον αντάρτη τον άντρακλα τον πελαγίσιο Θάλασσα πικροθάλασσα γιατί να σ' αγαπήσω Κι εκεί στου μακελειού την άψη δαγκώνω τα σχοινιά τα λύνω και μα τον Άγιο Κωνσταντίνο όλους τους ρίχνω μες στη χάση δεμένους με τα χέρια πίσω Θάλασσα πικροθάλασσα πώς να μην σ' αγαπήσω;

Σεβάχ ο θαλασσινός (Λ. Παπαδόπουλος-Μ. Λοϊζος)




Της αγάπης αίματα με πορφύρωσαν
και χαρές ανείδωτες με σκιάσανε
οξειδώθηκα μες στη νοτιά των ανθρώπων
μακρινή μητέρα ρόδο μου αμάραντο

Στ' ανοιχτά του πελάγου με καρτέρεσαν
Με μπομπάρδες τρικάταρτες και μου ρίξανε
αμαρτία μου να 'χα κι εγώ μιαν αγάπη
μακρινή μητέρα ρόδο μου αμάραντο

Τον Ιούλιο κάποτε μισανοίξανε
τα μεγάλα μάτια της μες στα σπλάχνα μου
την παρθένα ζωή μια στιγμή να φωτίσουν
μακρινή μητέρα ρόδο μου αμάραντο

red bloods of love have run in me
unknown happinesses have thrown their shade on me
i am oxidated by the human touch
distant mother, my unfading rose

out in the open of the sea they waited for me
and they opened fire against me with their three-sail bombard ships
it was a sin for me to have my love
distant mother, my unfading rose

once in july her big eyes half opened inside me
to throw light on pure life
just for an instant
distant mother, my unfading rose

ps. it's a very bad translation just for you to get an idea
Elytis' poem (only a part of it), Theodorakis' music


the air whispers in our eyes
hardly do we find more handy proof of our existence
we are almost transparent and life passes through
bodies, eyes, eyebrows, hands, they cannot enclose it

(what substance are we made of
what makes us men and women
what makes the love for life the love
that keeps us running throughout the timetrip)


we are-aren't we?-
alive readers in alive pages

ps. the paintings are Tsarouchis'