Chain to the sun.

Σε είχα δει στον ύπνο μου
Πριν πολλά, πολλά χρόνια
Παρακαλούσα να μην ξυπνήσω
(Γιατί αν ξέρεις κάτι
Το ξέρεις απ' την αρχή)
Κι ήξερα πως δε γινόταν να μείνω
Ούτε να 'ρθεις μαζί μου
Μα είχαμε μια νύχτα
Και τη ζήτησα ολόκληρη:
Η τελευταία μου πράξη αθωότητας.

Μου έμοιαζες πολύ
Γιατί έτσι θα σε γνώριζα
Ο ίδιος μαλάκας, από τότε.

Δεν έμαθα ποτέ πώς μυρίζεις
Λένε πως στα όνειρα δεν υπάρχουν μυρωδιές
Ίσως έτσι να ορίζονται βέβαια
Κάπως πρέπει να τα ξεδιαλέγουμε
Απ' τις αναμνήσεις.

Κάπως έτσι δια/ξε/απο-χωρίζουμε
Αυτά που δεν έχουμε
Απ' αυτά που δεν έχουμε πια.

Αν είσαι όντως κάπου εκεί μέσα
Ίσως να 'χεις συνηθίσει κι εσύ
Να μη θυμάσαι τα όνειρά σου
Και ίσως να 'χεις προσπαθήσει κι εσύ
Να ονειρευτείς το παρόν
Που θες να μη χρειαστεί να ξεχάσεις ποτέ.
Δεν είχες όνομα
Είχαν όλοι οι άλλοι
Μα εγώ προσπάθησα να τους βαφτίσω
Σαν εσένα.

Αν είσαι ακόμα κάπου εκεί μέσα
Δεν είσαι πια η λύση,
η λήθη,
η λήξη μου.

Ελπίζω να μη σε βρω ποτέ:
Κάποτε θα περίσσευες
Σήμερα περιττεύεις
Και δεν υπάρχει λέξη
Για τη συγγνώμη που χρωστάς.

ReJoyce

Dearest friend,


I know this letter comes unannounced, lacking the pompous signs that usually herald our mutual embrace of an inevitable transition. I know it's a treason of sorts, to words we spent on lesser ears, but this night I crave for your company and your company alone -a strange choice of words for some.

There's nothing I can tell you that you don't know already, but these days are too monumental in nature to be left unremarked. The old need to indoctrinate is gone, the persisting yearning for forced discipline, lost. I am writting to you, in loss of any thirst, outside any transition, waiting for no transcendance whatsoever and only you can apprehend the rarity, nay, the singularity of such a state.

I'm too old to call it all completeness and too reckless to name it peace. I think it might be freedom, though not of the kind we used to wish for, neither escape nor deliverance pollute my -our- smile. It's certainly not another piece of immunity reclaimed; I know for the lack of infection.

But the terms don't matter anymore, the terms can rest with those struggling.

I guess I can sum it up in a sentence, simple and brief, yet so novel for us, so novel even for us, that I do not know if I can celebrate enough through simple words. No matter,

All the faces are gone.

All the silver numbers we shot against the flesh and all the crimson strikes that blurred our purpose; they unexpectedly allied themselves against their individual inviability. Too grand to fit in our joy, too much to fit in our cups; a home, a truth, a pair of wings, something between a gift and a reward, all the faces are gone.

I tell you again, in a voice now become too expensive:

The faces are gone and only moments remain and
The turn has come for others
To weave songs about us.

At long last yours,

Hauptstadt

I walked tonight
Beneath the stars and ancient ruins
Among elated crowds
Laughing old men
Staring young women
Travelers and tourists
And locals and people like me
In-between-men.

And my city let me know
Or perhaps I let her say
That, finally, she knew me.

And I drew her breath
When the breeze was off course
The remnant of a thousand gifts
I took so much for granted
For too long.

I bled in foreign places
Some strange, some small
Revisiting small dents
In the low doors of memory.

And this place
Was always a point in my head
For departures or retreats
Never a home, mostly a castle
Where the spoils would be brought
To be feasted upon.

But I walked on her skin
And for a second, she crept beneath my own
Spreading the warmth of a million wars
A city that can suffer anything
And still remain eternal
A city feared by those outside
Who know simplicity as order
A city where the girls wear no masks
A right you earn under a teargas sun
And as I sank in her skin
Like the smallest of lovers
Like a mite on the left hand of god
I drank, again and again
I drank and I slid
Slid from her lips down to her bosom
No longer a man of in-between
No longer a lie scrawled on the mirror
I slid into what I could do
And with our common lips, I smiled.

Centurion

Deep beneath the petty scars
Sleep the legions.

Their slumber is finally deep
Their dreamless rest forever earned.

Only one pair of footsteps marches
Only one voice commands.

Behind the back, the shield hangs scorned
Beside the words, the blade rests sheathed.

We killed too many monsters
We scorched too much of what we owned.

The fortress is complete, impregnable
No longer necessary in its might.

We grew too much for any vandal;
Only our torches need be heeded now.

We took too many with us as we fell
As we fell to our own immunity.

And now they dwindled and grew small
What was their war became mere anger.

We killed too many monsters;
Now they must endure watching us live.

Their fear is now their own
Their homes are now their burden.

We let them be, let them remember
How we sent our legions to sleep.

We let them flee, let them be free
Let them go perish as they wish.

From deep beneath the petty scars
Our conquered peace has spent them.