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for Alexandros Christopoulos Others live as ghosts within us,and we within the others.When life reaches its end,fragments of the deadare saved within the survivors.Those things

Two cats were playing at the center.Aside, the poet sought a fray-the edge hiddenin the cosmic skein.With unconditional will,solemn in every respect-free from internal objections,negations,

We, the alcoholics anonymous of labor,not the Dionysian devotees of wine,refuse our inclusionin the class of the everywhere addicted.It is true that we do not

Unlike the infantwhich is defined by the softand warm embrace of its mother,the oyster’s fragile soulis molded within a frigidcasing of hardness.Thus, the organism of

The seagull poet sky-rows,he sky-rows;he flies above everlasting momentsand silvery glimmers;he scans from on high- he balances ;he balances with nanometric precisionand descends-Plunging his head

As we never managedto dedicate sublime poetry one to other;As we never managedto paint the portrait of each otherwith flawless strokeson the canvas of the

He strikes the chisel with the mallet, and so it goes.Hesitations and certitudesare imprinted upon the materiality.Each time a flake falls away,Τhe sculptor looks the

The wave orizonand the leaderspy upon the souls.We walked, each oneupon the footprint of the otherwrapped in our scentsand those of the animals.The breath of

Slowly dripssecretlyforbidden pleasureinto the veins of the brave.As he vanishes in the roar,the rushing river gives him away.The maniac strugglesto cleave the rushing waterin twain.