Circle... unnecessary, sharp objects and a scratched dress
covers the wound of your knee,
a form as humble as yours, elusive in dust
and many flies, indifferent.
Unstoppable the sword
and the words are bloody in the neighborhood,
lost torches in the sky
unable to see the grass, speechless shovels
in a hidden dreambook, which was lost in the mountain,
the steamboat sailed, oh father,
and the deftly voice of the tide
called me mortal, reminding me that I perish.
There aren’t no tired breaths, only a princess of impropriety
which sells her golden dresses in the sunset
and the little wolf shows his teeth.
Small pheasants in this blooming valley
and an owl
gives birth to fairy tales and myths in her morning dreams.
The sadness comes and goes but nothing is lost
on this peninsula
a silence in the air and the hidden key
imprinted years, beautiful painted faces
dead responsibilities, a gallows sky sharing bad omens
many rusty shields, sad songs.
Many belts cluttered in the mud and in the bodies buried,
lilies, riches of a painting, which cannot be resurrected
and all the words are searching for their author.
Fotios Panos
covers the wound of your knee,
a form as humble as yours, elusive in dust
and many flies, indifferent.
Unstoppable the sword
and the words are bloody in the neighborhood,
lost torches in the sky
unable to see the grass, speechless shovels
in a hidden dreambook, which was lost in the mountain,
the steamboat sailed, oh father,
and the deftly voice of the tide
called me mortal, reminding me that I perish.
There aren’t no tired breaths, only a princess of impropriety
which sells her golden dresses in the sunset
and the little wolf shows his teeth.
Small pheasants in this blooming valley
and an owl
gives birth to fairy tales and myths in her morning dreams.
The sadness comes and goes but nothing is lost
on this peninsula
a silence in the air and the hidden key
imprinted years, beautiful painted faces
dead responsibilities, a gallows sky sharing bad omens
many rusty shields, sad songs.
Many belts cluttered in the mud and in the bodies buried,
lilies, riches of a painting, which cannot be resurrected
and all the words are searching for their author.
Fotios Panos
