its gloomy and dark and winter-y outside; some splashes of blue litter the grey sky. Clouds are lazily moving about, not bothered to form any kind of interesting shapes for me. My coffee has gone cold and my book is not interesting. Not the first pages at least.
Today, I need to write something beautiful.
αγιά μαρίνα τζε τζυρά,
που ποτζοιμίζεις τα μωρά
ποτζιμιστα κορούθκια μου
με τούτα τα τραούθκια μοu
hundreds of stories hidden under wrinkled skin and grey hair shared over coffee time pressing- words floating all around the room as they escape from your mouth bouncing against the walls going through me, a moment of your moments nesting in my stomach
I am you- my daddy is young, big eyes curiously looking, asking “where’s the star going?”
a wreath of curly hair round my mummy’s pretty face fingers on the piano
“you were born in music” and then words back in your body and out again- There’s a battle within, images,memories struggling to come out
i sip more coffee and my daddy and mummy are young and in love, dancing
I feel/ a psyche anxious to rest “Remember, always.” a storyteller humming lullabies by our beds figs and halloumi roses, eggs
nanna, nanna don’t you go just yet.
tell me of the mad men you’ve nursed
of the snakes you’ve killed
of the bread you’ve made and
how was Paris in the 70s?
nanna, nanna if not you then who?
nanna, nanna I’m still a child with you
nanna, nanna
νάννι ναννά ναννούδκια του
τζι’ ύπνον εις τα μματούδκια του
without you, who is me?
A million breaths away from here
there sleeps a boy
in a crowded room
on a dirty floor
and thankfully, he’s dreaming.
