[Written by Erifili Gounari]
[Image by Erifili Gounari]
THE DAYS
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
elements
what is there
not to accept?
WHOLES
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.