Two decades over two millennia

The story I'm going to tell, is not my story. It is the story of someone, who is telling a story which is very similar to his own. The dream I will remember, won't be mine. It's the dream of someone who remembers a dream, that is very similar to his own. I think of stories I like to make stories. To tell them. I know this must sound like the dream of little Iasonas. What will he be when he grows up. When I wake up, it'll happen again. It'll start all over...

Friday, January 27, 2012

Άντρας που δεν εκάτεχε

Έσβησ' αέρας το κερί που κράτουνα στην χέρα
κι είναι για μένα η ζωή, σκοτάδι νύχτα μέρα.

Άντρας που δεν εκάτεχε τα μάτια του πως κλαίνε
αγάπησε και τρέξανε σαν τού μωρού, που λένε.