translated by Tzoutzi Mantzourani 

Oh! Those great drapes of sorrow
Horrible like Chagall’s blue
Unexpectedly, as if by chance
As if, there is no end
To Beauty
And all Death’s wine and treats
Us, the undefined ones, defined by the landscape.
Us, with lines extracted by spectator’s eyes.
The well taken care of, the unseen
The wiped ones with a harsh paper
Look at me, here,
Now that I see into the dark
Oedipus in Amerikis Square
The only spectator
At Studio cinema
Holding Sachtouris portrait on hand
Made with
The black colors that suit him so well
The undefined Time that is gone
From Kerameikos to Mets
A road 50 years long
For such a short ride
It is our tragic words
That has painted the Chaos
Ironically
Ruthlessly
And in vain.

                                                            At the beginning of summer in Athens

       The struggle of acts, Provocateur, 2018