The Days and Wholes

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[Written by Erifili Gounari]

[Image by Erifili Gounari]


Moon become sea

silence imagined, no difference,

no effort, no strain


sums of desire and of comfort

days of red and nights of white

emptiness challenged and

quiet embraced


a thousand fires, no –

a million

heavy lids and zero burden

and stars become silk.


The sound of the trumpet is

Eternity. You know her and she

sees you, she pulls you

in a reverie;


the perfect orchestration of



 what is there

not to accept?




An illusion selected

from a catalogue of truths;

staring at a blur of motion

starring in an act too real.

My own moon is always full

when time commands it to obey.

A circle’s genesis is nothing but a curse;

the inability to deal in halves

instead a dogmatic absolute.

An absolute that takes control

of every area that is grey

of every hue

that isn’t whole.



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