Reviews Poem by George Tzouvaras

I. (First phase-You)


In the dark arcades of a year that leaves
behind daring truths and habbits that must change
between sneaky advices
into ugly voices and nightmarish moments
in dimly faces from the hibernation of tv
in some old and forgotten vows
which dying into cigarettes and alcohol
you just stand there and wonder:

“What’s left to live?
Whats left to forget? ”


II.

In a room full of smoke
Forgotten melodies for company
some photos and faint smile
two abstract lines you draw
beholders of a coming age
believers of a leaving age
dreamers between realists
lunatics between sanes
simple hearted between pretentious



II. (second phase- Them)


They say that life is too beautiful
full of light and hope for tomorrow
well dressed and comically disguised
debouched as hordes of barbarians
in sad hang outs of one night
maden by golden prospects
carvened by the methods of ephemerous hygiene
knowing “common truths”
helping humanity stand on its feet
with crutches ideas that change
as it change their guilt.
Wrapped in colourfoul clothes
as they walk they are sinking into fens
of their “social abscence”
and they scream and they squashed
for a place in the sun...a sun
which not belongs to them.


IV.
Alone they will finish in some sad sunsets
The crown in their funeral too much
full of tears and “good memories”
but i allready see the man with the black suit
somewhere in the crowd
remembering a shock-in story about the dead
the sorrowfully lady next to him will smile
and then will go with him to some cheap motel
for a quick stand.


V. (third phase- me)

Quiet melodie in the room of silence
The age crowls shyly and invisibly
like a signal which must illume some dead ends
the day spins around in so many colours
and in tints that fit right her eyes
as it was oredered only by her.
Many times i wondered
“What could be this that turns me always to a start?
Which unseen power enrapture my soul? ”
Shyly thinking, well dressed too for the occasion
i use to consolidated in internal moments of escape
ready for a flight
without a pilot, without ship.

VI.
Alone again, stoned
in a deafen quietness
and in a palinode between tomorrow and now
Ages march before my eyes
like the little moments i lived with
ages proclaim my breath of life
and carry my vision.
In the wet fog of ages that comes
In the sunshine of ages that comes
In their wish tonight let me be.