Translated from the Greek by the author

City

City of the lost winds
Like missing beads
Like missing pearls
Nothing you get instead
When you ignore
When you forget
Those who still love you.

Your name is never mentioned
Land scattered
Land horrified
City of the lost winds
Shadow vanishing in dreams.

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Stranded

What counts
For us is the epic
Of that blue saga
Recounting the unfinished Cloth
Billowing exposed
To the nameless to and fro.
To us, the Stranded,
What matters is the Ship
Run aground in the harbor.

What really counts is
The lingering tear
Memories neglected
Promises recovered
And kisses still there
Αt the harbor
At the Station and around.

What matters is the Ship
Run aground in the harbor

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Translated from the Italian by the author

In The Rain

A rain of clapping
Little hearts vibrating
“Like it a lot”
Bunches of ill-smelling buds
Tepid hugs
Wishes tasting nothing
From friends and non
Yellow rain
Slipping in the loo rain
Like dancing
In the rain of mud and frog.

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Friday

Friday of bells
Fasting and mourning
And the shirt
Modelled on your slim body
Blatantly undone
From the linen shirt
Light aroma
“Eros and Thanatos” signed
And the deadly smell
Fatal smell of violets
Neglected, discharged.

The eye-catching chain, too
Evocative, dazzling gold.
Yes, you are handsome like this
Relic of the wounded Fisher King
Hero of the “Golden Bough”
Flowered frond.
On this Friday of bells and mourning
On this Friday of banished smiles
Adonis decorated.
Adored.

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