Striving to repeal those not repealable
joining forces even with your enemy
to accomplish even a breath
inkling of an invisible wraith
that creaks in your ears and traps your meninxes

dragging your footsteps in unknown places
with roads of abandonment
and imitations of trees
with just formed their complexions

everything on the other side
are declared as your opponents
and commute like guards in borders
unrepentant and menacing
like the curved swords in the hands of Hagarenes

you cannot even pausing
it would looks like a bloodless treason
with veins far away from your being

trying to cross the ditch
that separates you from life
but the paths are burning
and remain abeyance
with trembling feelings
surfaces wobbling
and slogans not reflecting

Civil war has now been sealed

*The original poem in Greek is here: https://tokoskino.wordpress.com/2013/07/28/%CE%B4%CE%B7%CE%BC%CE%AE%CF%84%CF%81%CE%B7%CF%82-%CF%84%CF%81%CF%89%CE%B1%CE%B4%CE%AF%CF%84%CE%B7%CF%82-%CE%BF-%CE%B5%CE%BC%CF%86%CF%8D%CE%BB%CE%B9%CE%BF%CF%82-%CE%AD%CF%87%CE%B5%CE%B9-%CF%80%CE%B9 Translation: Dimitris Troaditis

My ancestors
decoded names
unknown and poignant
into cells of shamed times
travels by fantastic long boats.

My ancestors dive
in halcyon days
with their indicators vibrated
with a scuttled loneliness
under dim lights
with intagible Arks
with a stimulation of whispers
and essence of illness

My ancestors coachmen
in dark lanes
in heavens without lights
leaving variant breaths
when shooting unsuccesfully in the mornings

My ancestors
gone unappealable
staying dead in the tracks
where others struggling
to cloud them.

*Translation Dim. Troaditis. The Greek original is here https://tokoskino.wordpress.com/wp-admin/post.php?post=6132&action=edit&message=6&postpost=v2

Here we have got a translation in Portuguese / Εδώ έχουμε μια μετάφραση στα πορτογαλικά:

Os meus antepassados

Os meus antepassados
nomes decifrados
incógnitos e dolorosamente
enjaulados
na ignomínia travessia
dos fantásticos crudes

Os meus antepassados
mergulham
nos dias de Halcyon
com os indicadores
em sintonia
com dias de ruinosa solidão
sob as luzes ofuscantes
da intangível Arca
com o estímulo dos murmúrios
e a essência da doença

Os meus antepassados cocheiros
nas ruas escuras
nos céus sem luzes
recolhendo variantes respirações
quando clico
sem sucesso nas manhãs

Os meus antepassados
inapelavelmente desaparecidos
permanecem mortos nas trilhas
onde outros lutando
os enublam

*Tradução de Emília Cerqueira.

Spare
a piece
of heaven
to those underprivileged
make it
a headrest
to harvest
by the sickle
the indisposition
that grow big like
sowed it
for years

*The Greek original is here https://tokoskino.wordpress.com/2012/12/25/%CE%B4%CE%B7%CE%BC%CE%AE%CF%84%CF%81%CE%B7%CF%82-%CF%84%CF%81%CF%89%CE%B1%CE%B4%CE%AF%CF%84%CE%B7%CF%82-%CF%87%CE%AC%CF%81%CE%B9%CF%83%CE%BC%CE%B1/

The nights I seek
to fly in reminiscings
at that pine
lost one morning
in the courtyard of abandonment

to become air
in night deserts
streets of sleeplessness

these nights I seek
to be baptized with
names I like

impersonate roles
I always liked

be balanced on the sharp
zigzag fabric of my existence

*The Greek original is here https://tokoskino.wordpress.com/wp-admin/post.php?post=5831&action=edit&message=6&postpost=v2

I will do the body movements
wiser than the mind
while the ground creaks
by a cunning naivete
beneath our feet

I will do the radiowaves of our sounds
pulsate in sunlighted banks
while contemplate
our decline in moon spaces
and dramas of stars

I will keep our inner fire
only ourself
while our body twirled
changing colors and stops
in the exaltation of our revolted veins

*The Greek version of this poem is here https://tokoskino.wordpress.com/2013/04/04/%CE%B4%CE%B7%CE%BC%CE%AE%CF%84%CF%81%CE%B7%CF%82-%CF%84%CF%81%CF%89%CE%B1%CE%B4%CE%AF%CF%84%CE%B7%CF%82-%CF%83%CF%84%CE%B7%CE%BD-%CE%AD%CE%BE%CE%B1%CF%81%CF%83%CE%B7-%CF%84%CF%89%CE%BD-%CE%B5%CE%BE/

Translation: Dimitris Troaditis

Albert Birkle, Under the Red Flags (1919)

This long march
towards death
must be halting
the dark blue
jet-black signs of dizziness
need to change color

this unwavering pain
above the rooftops
of our hearts
must be mutated
into an explosive thinking
obsessive and fiery
glowing
on the anvil
of the class struggle
as expected as a sunrise
hot like a tear
on our cheek
after the day’s wage
of terror

this wild path
towards death
must be stopped
by an exquisite dawn
of those dispossessed
by a red raising
of our soul
that will not allow
the preambles of injustice
to be done volumes of analgesia.

*The original Greek poem can be found here https://tokoskino.wordpress.com/2013/07/07/%CE%B4%CE%B7%CE%BC%CE%AE%CF%84%CF%81%CE%B7%CF%82-%CF%84%CF%81%CF%89%CE%B1%CE%B4%CE%AF%CF%84%CE%B7%CF%82-%CE%BC%CE%B5-%CE%BC%CE%B9%CE%B1-%CE%BA%CF%8C%CE%BA%CE%BA%CE%B9%CE%BD%CE%B7-%CE%B1%CE%BD%CE%AC/

Heaven, you are the reversed
bed of a brothel,
you’re the no longer usefull
skull of a dead
your rooftop has pierced
its tiles
collapsed by a crash,
your desperation
writhed on the floor
screaming with screeching voices.

*The original poem in Greek is here https://tokoskino.wordpress.com/2012/05/16/%CF%84%CF%81%CF%8D%CF%80%CE%B9%CE%B1-%CF%83%CF%84%CE%AD%CE%B3%CE%B7/
A republication is here http://gatheredavantgardepoets.blogspot.com.au/2012/12/blog-post.html

Lights on old dirt-roads
covered by grimy asphalts
used for thousands of years.
Yellowed curtains behind panes
sometimes colourful, trimmed.
Metallic beds with hands and legs
painted ochre at their joints.
Carrefours of rooms with stains
and holes in our super-civilisation.
Plastic tablecloths for one use
like meaningless soap-operas
with pink flashy reflections
for our optical field to be disorientated.

And we are hidden
so as not to become perceptible
from their ageing before their time,
figures of our indisposition.
It is impossible to be delighted
by a flame of energy
because there is nothing to be discovered
given that we raised ourselves
a small whispering
to be hidden once again
laying beside ill prospects.

Existence
is like an oyster
into the deep sea

green
like our
fruitful garden

dark blue
like our coat
during autumn

but grey
almost black
like our chimney
in our soul

Words like swords
of despair
words hurling
in the wind

words of anger
words of orgy
and hate

behind those words
we built
our existence

upon those words
as fountains
we sacrificed
ourselves