The Rain Never Stops

It rains all day and night

But I keep busy.

Surround myself with people

So that I can’t hear the rain any more.


I laugh and I smile

And I feel at peace.


Sometimes a drop will land on me

And I worry, that the storm might still be going strong.


From time to time everyone else leaves

And I can hear the rain might still be going strong.


How long is it going to last

How long until the ceiling can’t support me any more.

Until it caves in, letting the violent rain drench me whole.


Who knows…

Κουράστηκα

Δεν φοβάμαι πλέον τους λύκους

Στα λαγκάδια έπαιζα μικρός

Και είδα πολλούς να τρώνε και να τρώγονται .


Μα αυτοί ήταν φανεροί

Και όταν πέρναγαν δόντια και νύχια έβγαζαν

Και άρχιζαν το κυνήγι.


Πλέον τα πρόβατα φοβάμαι

Με τις συνομωσίες και τις πλεκτάνες

Που θέλουν όλη την έκταση για τον εαυτό τους.


Στο παίζουν φίλοι συμπονετικοί

Μα όταν γυρνάς πλάτη να φύγεις

Την τροφή σου πάνε να φάνε με μανία .


Έχω πάθει πολλά και έχω μάθει πολλά

Αλλά κουράστηκα να κοιτάζω πίσω μου συνέχεια

Και το φαΐ μου να κρύβω.

Από εδώ και πέρα λέω να κόψω τη χορτοφαγία

Λύκος να γίνω κι εγώ, κι ας μείνω μόνος και πάλι.


Εξ άλλου σε λίγο δε θα υπάρχει άλλο χορτάρι

Θα έχει φαγωθεί όλο.

An Offering

Every person, in their lifetime, has to offer something to the world. My artistic offering will be through poetry. Because a poem requires and expects silence; attribute of silence, to a world of noise. I offer up my emotions, in their raw form, so that it may be known and felt by others, in an attempt to comfort them and myself. Most of my poems talk about sadness, since that emotion has been a major factor in my life, as it is now, and in my development as a person and as an artist. I hope that my emotions have enough depth, to reach those that have felt what I feel and those that haven’t, alike. Through these posts, I will be creating a pathway into my thoughts, my worries and fears, as a way of managing my emotions and willingly allowing them to take shape; moulding them into a desired format that abides to my aesthetics and may perhaps be better appreciated, in an abstract context.

Η ποίηση, η παρηγοριά μου

Η ζωή είναι ένα σπίτι, με ένα στραβό καθρέφτη. Μέχρι που συνειδητοποιείς ότι ο καθρέφτης είναι ίσιος και όλος ο κόσμος είναι στραβός.

Old Friend

Interesting how art can be your every expression

Yet escape you

Every time you sit

With the purpose to create.


A notebook by your side

A reminder of your worries

Memories and troubles

Captured within a few lines.


How did we used to speak

But now you’re all alone.


Old friend where did you go

I’m tired of the silence.

But I no longer wish to scream

Even if that’s all I know.


I can no longer wait

For another revelation

Only search alone

With thoughts left mute.


Start a conversation with the sky

Now that the stars are gone.

Try and be a star myself

Since the sun no longer cries.

Απόλυτη Σιωπή

Η βροχή πέφτει

Κι εγώ κλείνομαι και σιωπώ
Μα το μυαλό δεν ηρεμεί.

Σφίγγω τα χέρια μου
Μα η φωνή δε σβήνει.

Τα φώτα κλείνουν
Και κοιτάζω το κενό.
Το σκοτάδι παίρνει υπόσταση
Ενώ η ζωή γελάει.

Με κατακλύζουν οι συνειρμοί
Για τα λάθη που ρίζωσαν
Και ο λαιμός στεγνώνει

Να μη χυθούν άλλες λέξεις ποτέ.

Η Γη να καταπιεί
Κάθε δράση και αντίδραση.

Ο κόσμος να μείνει βουβός.

Μικρή η απώλεια
Γιατί η βροχή
Ακόμα πέφτει.

The Voice Of The Unspoken

Clouds are setting
On the unassuming sky

And the trees quiver
Waiting for the Autumn songs

The light dims
The scenery turns dull

Yet only silence whispers

Rain and wind have left
Leaving the forest dry

Sending the trees in long-forgotten mourning…

The tears of the trees will dig in rivers in the mountains
And the howling stream will break the calm

Until a new song emerges
An esoteric cry…

Cognitive Dissonance

The wall that covers up the sky

The willful imprisonment

By the self-amputated soul

A resonance

That the more we look for

The further away it appears to be

The vibration of the sky

That keeps us up at night

An existence that seeks to free itself

From all the strings attached to it

Yet shackled by its inability

To move on its own

We are all chasing the light

That is within us

Our reality is in our own mind

Yet we cannot fathom to look

In our innermost sanctum

We are not blind

We are simply looking

Too far out…

What if, however, humans exceed animals in their capacity for violence precisely because they speak? As Hegel was already well aware, there is something violent in the very symbolisation of a thing, which equals its mortification. This violence operates at multiple levels. Language simplifies the designated thing, reducing it to a single feature. It dismembers the thing, destroying its organic unity, treating its parts and properties as autonomous. It inserts the thing into a field of meaning which is ultimately external to it. When we name gold “gold,” we violently extract a metal from its natural texture, investing into it our dreams of wealth, power, spiritual purity, and so on, which have nothing whatsoever to do with the immediate reality of gold.

Slavoj Žižek, Violence. (via a-witches-brew)