People are like clouds
they scatter away
from wind's first breath
or they become frostbites
like handcuffs to your heart
or worst
they gather together
to support an angry sky
And drop dead onto your lap
One way or another
Flakes or drops
always gets dry or withered
under time's relentless wings
You see...
eternity always wins the game
And it doesn't matter
whether you were a cloud or a rain
Passers both of them
II
There is a justice to the dirt
it confirms the mortality
of the 'godish' complex
it also reassures the earth
of the flesh's vanity
Even the heart turns to dust
~ the heart that you kept your secret gardens ~
proving nature's revenge
against human’s temporary feelings
Blood is just a future-dry well, my love
and nothing not even our dreams
will survive the infinitive's rage
III
Life is like a naked graveyard
under death another life grows and expands
Always replacing the dead leaves
with similar ones
~ similar not the same
but no one notices the difference ~
So, my love,
What’s the point to cut a fresh flower
when you already have yesterday’s death
to decorate your windows?
IV
I, slowly, come in terms
with what they call "finality"
I don't know if the word is correct
but I do know that time is measured
by what is broken
You can never un-done
the cup's fragmentation
it's against physic laws
but sometimes, yes sometimes,
I can't stop thinking of rewind
Imaging the cup whole again...
when I' ll stop then I will comprehend
the meaning of their word
V
I think it always have been
this specific time of the year
that I watched the butterflies
spread their wonderful wings
and the spiders finishing
their unique web trap
I always felt sorry for them
The spiders, I mean
It is not easy to kill
the beauty and be proud of it
but I think that every now and then
we all change roles
Sometimes we are butterflies
and once in a while we are spiders
with the same result, mind you
If you are a spider
someone, someday
will cut thru your heart's silky web
if you are butterfly
someone, someday
will rip your wings out
of your fragile shoulders
So, my love,
there is no difference to the role
you choose every season to play
even if you wished for it ...
VI
it seems that time and I
have a rendezvous
every now and then
It troubles me to think
the hours between the events
like a caterpillar waiting
fot its glory tranformation
what is it think while it awaits?
like a telescope that brings your sight,
~ yes sir, thats the modern world ~
near the sky
well, I hate to dissapoint you, love,
but that 'near' destroys it all
And in this point to our misery story
between 'happening' comes the moth
a sleepy creature or an active mind?
Επίλογος
ξέρω πως ξαφνικά επικαλούμεθα
την οποιαδήποτε γλώσσα μαθαίναμε
ως μικρές κάμπιες
σαν να θέλουμε να δείξουμε
στις υπόλοιπες κάμπιες
την δική μας μεταμόρφωση...
Η ουσία είναι ότι σε όποια γλώσσα
κι αν το κουκούλι σου χτίσεις
Η ζωή δεν είναι τίποτα άλλο
παρά ένα γυμνό νεκροταφείο
Για όποιο σημείο της πυκνά κατοικείται
υπάρχουν οι κάμπιες
Φροντίζουν
την εκκένωση του χώρου από τα παλιά
Βλέπεις, αγάπη μου,
κάτω από την νεκρή ζωή
υπάρχει μια άλλη φωνακλού
που εξαπλώνεται και κυριαρχεί
πάνω σου, μέσα σου, δίπλα σου...
είτε έχεις σπάσει την κούπα
είτε την κοιτάς συνεπαρμένος
από την αντοχή της
Maria Rodopoulou
