self-portrait at 27
dreams fly off into the future
I ran, fast, faster breathless,always
I grab their tip, hold ’em tight alas
they slip I’m left
speaking to heavy rain
dreams fly off into the future
I ran, fast, faster breathless,always
I grab their tip, hold ’em tight alas
they slip I’m left
speaking to heavy rain
on&off I’m a writer of the night
I sleep away, I dream of flying I wake
when I’m dying I read wars, jobs, cakes, skirts
daily
but not my words they are kept
for the moments that by way of alcohol
they slip through my mouth
white butterflies against the sky in the mornings
I forget I’m a writer
then, stars come out
and my words are choking me
as you keep growing up
you will meet Fear
take him by the hand
and dance
dance, dance, dance
till-
I.
on a midsummer’s evening
she stretched her evergreen leaves
over the land she had been planted
feeling her roots tangling
as they dug into the soil
stumbling over little treasures;
shells and fossils and olives’ kernels-
silent tales of lives past.
she fed them with rain’s drops and care.
through seasons changing,
she’d gathered the history she’d witnessed wash ashore,
for everything came by sea
in boats of wood and heavy iron.
she’d kept some pieces folded in her stem;
the Ç she had taken by a green-eyed lady
the kay came out of the mouth of a freckled baby
and the ομικρον belonged to a language no-one spoke no more
II
just as she was admiring her jewels,
a breeze shuffled them around
giving birth to a word
whose sound
filled the air with hope :
Çοk
as tiny
as vibrant
as diverse
as the ground these letters walk on
yet,
there’s no doubt;
a very word of their own