Επιμέλεια: Εύα Πετροπούλου Λιανού
Let us go, from where we have been sitting, words of abrasion, ashes of trampling. Tread this abandoned ground, only one suffers, to shatter the walls of artificiality that are supposedly closed. I am always your unqualified strength.
O muse, the festival of silence that blooms by the side of the railroad in spring. I am writing of red and yellow, those unannotated flowers. A stem from this earth. A single unannotated will. All that you do, O Muse.
I am the silent witness to the truth of the body you tell me. I must write on this paper, clutched tightly in my hand, that the supposedly closed walls of humanity are faith in a reality that has no substance to touch, that no one alone must suffer the illusion of this world.
Therefore, my footsteps since my return to the station of this land are shown by crushed rubble, and my high pressure strokes are plowed as ridges of black gloss, and here is my letter to you.
A land of white rubble. The polished iron road. A railroad that leads from you to the one who is now lost, for that very one person. Each stem that brings forth a flower, alongside the railroad that has received life, is revealed as you again, from your rough sketch.
