Faith is found within its own existence
for we share the same syndromes
with people we don’t even know
because we are deprived of bread and water
and we sold our clothes for occasional prices
because we worked in thousands of professions
yet were drawn naked and hungry.

We will not surrender
although we draw in polluted atmospheres,
wear false passion as a trade mark,
although our youth crumbled
and the Erinyes came against us as nightmares.

We will not surrender
and let our melancholy flow
as abundant light,
although we lack the maternal kiss
and are unaware of our fathers
forging our historical existence.

Once more, we will not surrender
because we are lovers of the sun
and our songs lighten the world
and our shouts challenge the horizons
and our feelings escape
to return in the limelight,
from the confinement within ourselves
becoming the balsam of our wounds
and our actions of social rising
startled the world.

Finally, again and again,
we will not surrender
because one beat of our heart
is decisive and one smile from us
is enough.

Freedom should come with class dispositions
with a fabulous tinge of the soul
touching upon sometimes strange mysticisms
and sometimes imperceptible analyses
of our bitter unique experience.

The burning glances give colour to the universe
must determine the eternally conscious game
abolishing older timeless achromatic failings
firing the dilapidated sides of our heart
aiming at the wildly visionary luminous utopia.

The dark side
of our internal passions
is suffocating
heavy as an imperishable value,
as a triumphant show

that’s why even
with the explosions of futility
we hardly try to connect
the two of our
different facades.

We fizzled out
in decades vaporised
as old-fashion clunkers
resembling our memory

with the snaky paths
the uneven steps
and back streets
in the edges of the cliffs.

To be reborn by the earth

bypass those doomed meetings

dissolve those false wishes and dilemmas

confide our secrets

begin the big overturning

get rid of the disturbed background of our days.

Your eyes clock markers

in squares surrounding

climate of a sea of faces

do not favor the birth

of the summer

your inspirations are struggling

to cause explosive riots

no tears get away

no look be prosecuted

no flash be launched

in areas of competition

in tramways heaven

your traces diminish

everywhere and nowhere

at their own pace

throwing their tentacles

at deprived skeletons

from feelings of pleasure

behind closed shutters

the blinds are gaping

The glances are transparent lakes
near the sickness of the springs.
Our presence is a smell
from freshly wet earth
and hung up bed-sheets
steaming hot white clothes
a brought to the verandas
after the morning fog.
We hung up everything in the sunlight
as if to celebrate
the memories of our ancestors
forgotten in the byways
of aged deaths
and in the dirty narrow wayward
of cantankerous climacteric.
Troubles, pains,
generous receptions,
are incidents in our life
as we rock our feelings
on the uncomfortable planks of ox-cart
with our glances propped-up
in eternal invocations
in streets empty from life.
What is this thing always hidden
in our life?
Maybe the cut head of a rebel,
a revolted pain
sought afterwards
to be risen from the dam
of our imperishable perseverance?
Maybe the seasonal fruits
forgotten on the kitchen table
like a flame of a fairy tale
which is extinguished after each awakening
when the men of the family
drowsily listen like small children?

Acrobatics on a stretched rope
you know the world through graves
old paintings are reproducing the blood
of miserable prayers and ordeals
οf jumps and deliverances

The question is if immortality
can release us
from the bonds of necessity…

The poetry of our bodies
is the most perfect
impetuously perfect
multi-standard step…

Whoever doesn’t adhere to this poetry
is buried alive by regimes of disaster
in white posthumous circles
with stones erected in the soul
dying in an unequal battle.

The scars on the face

are the end of contact

repulsive scarecrows

from a lost innocence

exiled

in disinherited dispositions.

There are some artificial

Mortgages

for the future

drive me mad

are like awful shapes

found in distressed mirrors

those dark triangles

those grey walls

ready to crush me

dirty and frayed

like the impossible playing

of a piano with no tone.