Written by
Dimitris P Kraniotis |
The savour of fruits
still remains
in my mouth,
but the bitterness of words
demolishes the clouds
and wrings the snow
counting the pebbles.
But you never told me
why you deceived me,
why with pain
and injustice did you desire
to say that the end
always in tears
is cast to flames.
|
Written by
Dimitris P Kraniotis |
Life counts
the rules;
the sunset, their exceptions.
Rain drinks up
the centuries;
spring, our dreams.
The eagle sees
the sunrays
and youth, the visions.
|
Written by
Dimitris P Kraniotis |
Une boule
les prières
murmurent
peureuses.
Des «Moi» bêtes
s’ inondent,
sans que tu saches
jamais,
ce que je demande.
|
Written by
Dimitris P Kraniotis |
Waves of circumflexes
storms of adverbs,
windmills of verbs,
shells of signs of ellipsis,
on the island of poems
of soul,
of mind,
of thought,
one-word garments
you wear
to endure!
|
Written by
Dimitris P Kraniotis |
Snow-covered mountains,
ancient monuments,
a north wind that nods to us,
a thought that flows,
images imbued
with hymns of history,
words on signs
with ideals of geometry.
|
Written by
Dimitris P Kraniotis |
Noiseless wrinkles
on our forehead
the frontiers of history,
shed oblique glances
at Homer’s verses.
Illusions
full of guilt
redeem
wounded whispers
that became echoes
in lighted caves
of the fools and the innocent.
|
Written by
Dimitris P Kraniotis |
Le nuage s’est battu
avec le sable,
sous la pluie
des «non» et des «oui»,
marchant avec de la force
sur la logique
qui écoute
à l’impasse des «peut être».
|
Written by
Dimitris P Kraniotis |
La vie compte
les règles,
le couche du soleil
leurs exceptions.
La pluie boit
les siècles,
le printemps nos rêves.
L’aigle regarde
les rayons du soleil
et la jeunesse, les rêves.
|
Written by
Dimitris P Kraniotis |
Le bruit des autos
ferme à clé l’aube
avec des réponses coupées
et des refus inadmis
qui se répètent
sévèrement
a chaque couché du soleil.
|
Written by
Dimitris P Kraniotis |
La cheminée
voulait
mettre un point,
à la proposition
que le chemin
de mes rêves
a collée
sur le mot bonheur,
avec des flammes
du bois mouille
que j’ai ramasse
de mon âme
et que j’avais osé
de le transformer en cendre.
|