Oracle

A smoke in the Oracle of sky races first wore on
 the pace of the procession. A raven fights the
canvas of the sky tweets explaining the dream-book,
voices of women, quiet streams, unique beauties.
In this theater cyanide, melanoma on long hair in
 the opinion which is considered unique. Silence
knows that lips are guarded, that the storks burst
 in the joy and in the eyes of the young girls, slugs
 to chew before the eyes the moist sorrow, the heart
 that beats ticking unprofitably. Full moans approaching
from the pitch almost childless, almost unprotectable.
Speak in front of the sunrise, speak in front of the virtue
 of the sun. A moment does not reach the mind of the
stork to put on sleep the stars and the bow of the day,
the navel of the world can't hold the bronze eagles.
 Oracle of water and stone, indirect, rhetorical words
let not stay the affirmation in the locked trunk let all the
 knees to bend in front of the dead jasmine. Hapless
nature that gained in your road souls of navigators.
 Sweet, sweet whispered me to cry next to a cliff for the fairy tale to grow.

Fotios Panos

Season

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