Επιμέλεια: Εύα Πετροπούλου Λιανού
In the dead blue season of poetry, before everything crumbles, let’s listen to this soft vagueness that the poetry of our time chants in unison. There must have been a number of personal struggles in between the records, but now they are processed like a sloppy garment, and only echoes remain like a foolish twilight. If the record is a pseudo record, then my poem is nothing more than a joke, a tragedy, a comedy foretelling sorrow.
If the poem does not strike me, who will write down this incredible and transparent truth? Rather, poetry must be written as a precious truth, in silence, using the underground passages of the heart. I can only offer words strong enough to withstand the test of time as a season of mourning for poetry.
One stone. I hand you that concrete stone that a hundred and a thousand words could not describe. A stone handed to you with certainty in the palm of your anguish. It will not only warm your palm. It fills the core of your body and soul. Now, let go of the fading rainbow and take your stone.
My body heat that remains in the stone will be passed on to your body heat. From hand to hand. The reality of this world is that everything is upside down. But it is impossible to cheat time. It must be a fact that truth appears from the past to the present. The stone of truth. It is everywhere. The poet must risk himself to deliver this stone of truth.
