The Greek Newspaper of the Greek Diaspora in the USA, News, Culture and Art
The Greek Newspaper & the Greek Radio in the USA
To those who think that Greece does not matter today, let me say that they could not make a bigger mistake. Today, like old Greece, is of the utmost importance for anyone looking to find himself.
Henry Miller, 1891-1980, American author
Peace deeply formed by light, peace. All moments shape you, your blood leaps in the spring, one kiss from you calms the dream. On every stone you step, dawn appears, at every hour the door of heaven opens and a new sun is confused in the...
I look at the clouds, round purple clouds, I look at the sea, dawns and golden sunsets. I look at the world, the yellow that I gathered, the moon from the green branch, the pink fire and the white snow. The stars and the sky of...
Run away, my dear. Where should I go? To the broken stone. What should I eat, what should I drink? A red nightingale. How should I slaughter it? With a knife from the moon. Where is the knife? The fires burned it. The fires that went? The rains extinguished them....
to Nikos Gatsos Like the first day of the world and everything falls silent. Your voice tears the rock, the sweetness in the heart deepens. Black crow in the water, a branch blooms beyond. Whatever is left in the sky has been taken by the dream of the day. Pyracantha in the...
Swallow, swallow of love, who saves me after I fell from the sky into the black of time. The keys were taken by others, braver and greater, who drank the immortal water and left me an orphan. But on earth there are angels, eating fruits and drinking...
Transparency of midday light Birds fly above the tall grass The sun embroiders the stone High on the rocks far away the sky shines and the wind wraps me in cool clothes. The day flows through the branches where the nightingale sat and now here motionless as the...
to Nikos Gatso Like the first day of the world and everything is silent. Your voice tears the rock and the sweetness in the heart deepens. Black crow on water branch blossoms beyond. All that is left in the sky has been taken by the daydream. Fireflies in your hands...
My moments with bare feet are lost in the sky. The garden of the world is small and my loneliness is vast. The rain sings with loose hair and the trees have opened their eyes to know themselves. Inside I know them and inside they think of me...
Nothing in bloom. I am returning to my place. In silence the well. Without my voice I could smell the Resurrection. Not even the starfish. Without a stone sprouting. Without the fire tree. But, with a nightingale cloud in the dream the weft. Now...