i wouldn't have guessed
-never-
this kind of life was out of range
i wouldn't have guessed it would be mine
and it would flow so rapidly

i thought of many lives
but only i thought of them
i could see better in the past
than in the present
now i see i have not seen but guessed

when we depart

in turn
we become
the shadow of acts

ii
thus it means
repetition would resist
personal differentiation

iii
would that always then
exist?
i surrender

the following dawn
i need to see
the sun arising
and afterwards
the moon arising from the same point;
the same movement
from different bodies

attraction is a kind of gravity
in order that one should finally root

but it takes always an observer

to admit the existence through love.

'το σταμνί που δεν ήθελε να στερέψει στο τέλος της μέρας '

ταιριάζει ο στίχος του Σεφέρη

σε κάθε ψυχούλα
σαν μικρή πνοή που κατοικεί στο χρόνο

monologue

what are blogs for?
we put in these places of ours
the things we like
to create the image of the life we'd
like
and try to share it with
more
so,
something is missing
something is wrong
and we try
to fix
and remember
keep track
of the slippery
time
we were writing
on that day
we saw
then
we did
we were
now we are
thinking of
something that was said
by someone on the other end
of the planet
where it might not be night nor summer
we move towards there
we like that
don't we?

the sound of life
for someone who appears through the mist
could it have been us?
he sounds familiar
could we have met? certainly not!
but yes,
these blogs were for him

there are indefinite solutions to a strictly defined problem
there is no solution where there are no restrictions


where there are no corners, no solid things
shadows
methods
get disguised as ideas

a long way
long way

up here
to there
to us to them

tomorrow
is here

hello!

storm

one day it's misty and vague
one day it's clear, all shapes are strongly defined
it puzzles me i cannot make up my mind
who am i

how quickly does it turn into night
the wisdom of the window in silent paths it leads
through the mirror of time
our hands turn into wood and small stuff like
threads and shadows
we swallow the dirt that arises on the fall of water





Mothers cry inside the memory
On the way home we are led into flying
above the earth
we are light and light
and alone

at once
at a glance
all over