Before the slip of time


Days are passing, hours are passing,

moments as well

and the curtains are closing

for one more time.

They will open again. Tired actors.

Even more tired the audience

watching the same play again and again.


Nobody is leaving unless something


Everybody these days is an intellectual.

And the time is almost at its end,

is bending.

We also lean with it in the streets,

in the squares.


We, who once had wings on our shoulders,

who used to speak for peace, freedom, love

had halos in our long hair,

drawings in our torn jeans, we...

It’s burning out the flame of the heart

together with the lighted halo,

principles are changing,

-others didn’t have any -

lowered to those old ones

they kept telling us…

and are still telling us.


We are spreading out …

We are separating…

We lose each other...

…but we still exist.



The bushes


We were sitting on the beach,

a warm quiet night, next to the bushes. 

You told me about the sea, the earth,

the people, your far away travels.

What did you tell me about you?

What did you tell me about us?

You understood there was not any space,

only whispers in the air. 


Behind the closed door

I was hearing the sound of the waves,

the sound of the sand, your voice.

I was reading letter by letter your eyes

through the curtains,

and to my ears were coming only the whispers.

The turtle was walking

and the seagulls were eating

until the first fishing boat sailed.


Inside the turtle’s shell wither and lament,

while outside always the noise of whispers.


I wish (not to)


I wish not to have known you yesterday.

I wish to have had today, the experiences 

that we have for one another,

and instead I wish I would meet you today.

But now it is too late.


I wish not to have met you yesterday.

I wish to have known from the beginning

the things I have learnt about you,

during all this time,

and today to meet you again for the first time.


I wish not to have met you yesterday.

I wish to have known you

and you to have known me,

the way we know each other today

and instead I wish I would  to meet you today.

But now it is too late.


Making circles


Until now I was searching,

I was searching always around you,

around you until I reached you

with my eyes looking at the floor

without being able to meet

your innocent glance,

your warm lips

which always knew

what they were waiting for.

Unable to say something,

coming out with a lot of excuses,

until you stop me,

taking me in your arms,

until we both cry,

until I reach you to tell you

what I was searching for

- and I wasn’t surprised

that you knew it -


And until now I was searching,

I was searching always around you,

around you …



Our days


Turning the pages of a diary you see

that time is short, hours even shorter.

So the new day will come

one more blank page,

taking you in its cold embrace

the same way as yesterday,

the day before yesterday,

two days before yesterday, the same, equal.

Synonymous words ,one after the other,

trying to give an image, one idea. 





In the spreading of your wings

your familiar angelic voice spoke inside me

and I felt strong, as a rock,

but I still felt the need to ask for charity,

being alone again,

though I would deny it if someone

were to hold out their hand and give me…


Tears of happiness and expectation.

Tears of sorrow...

and the earth becomes a swamp,

I become muddy,

I make you muddy as well.


In the wet soil, through the black flowers,

grew two white statues,

remained status forever though,

motionless in the park.

I was perhaps absent-mindedly 

watching some pigeons.



In the steps 


A. The  ceremony.


The island is almost sinking

by the weight of the visitors

lines of candles,

groups of young people

basically from the capital city

arranged, with an attitude,

opportunity for them

to meet each other there and compete,

hidden by the darkness.

Sideway glances, playful smiles, murmur... 

looks like distances have got smaller.


I don’t know if it was blamed on

the smell of the spring,

the night with the shadows of the candles,

or the mystery of the temple

with only the voice of the priest in the silence.


Incense, roses, the sea,

imposing, elegant dressing

ready for the clubs afterwards.

All gangs as if skipping school

although it was school holidays.


B. In the steps of the church


Now that the circle went off its centre

following the diameter,

which was foolishly turning around the perimeter

of small colourful lights trembling

in the rhythm of the music,

I found, as well, the point of the horizon

I was searching for, in the beautiful,

related to today, past.


Fireworks projected in the black sky

strange reaction of people, happiness, panic,

others acting as if they were indifferent, posing

and you were standing finally

near across from me

with that well known every day pride

which was becoming more intense

during the national days

-smiling and proud-

sometimes a lit silhouette by the candles

sometimes you were shining

from your own inner brightness,

clear through your eyes,

in the dark of the night

-within the people of your group-

and when the lights spread out

you looked at me

and I immediately, almost inconceivably

mumbled something like best wishes

…and I left

-with my own, until then only, group of people-



The baby with the blue eyes


The dirty children

in the swamps and the factories,

where mud, cogs and hunger

make them even dirtier.

The search for a piece of stale bread

with empty stomachs in the fog.

The dirty, nude children,

who smear mud on their bodies,

search rubbish bins in the rain.


The dogs wander, the children are begging,

one girl doesn’t know who to choose from,

one guy is driving by in his red cabrio,

the chimneys are vomiting pollution,

I am dreaming, you are staring into my eyes

and you believe me


- your beautiful blue eyes, full of insecurity - 


The rubbish in piles

the rubble like streamers

left and right of the pavement,

lorries start their engines,

the children with tears in their eyes,

the new born is wailing loudly

and it’s voice is piercing my ears.


Are you sure you want us to have a baby?




It does not change


Don’t pay attention

that there are no dreams around.

Don’t expect us to change anymore.

Come on, hit the drum,

light fireworks and dynamite,

this world does not change.


Go on hunger strikes,

work strikes

and protests,

this world does not change.


Write songs

for children,

middle age people

and the elderly,

this world does not change.


Play the flute,

in the streets,

parks and squares,

since you are there, give a speech as well,

this world does not change.


Call the police

and the neighbours,

the fellow villagers

to prevent what?

This world does not change.


Press buttons for nuclear mushrooms,

whatever you can imagine,

like mushrooms again

will burst out new same people.

Because this world does not change.


Don’t pay attention

that there are no borders around

we only put fences in our hearts

(don’t go away any more,

you cannot get out of your dreams)


Better go only to weddings,


and festivities.



The international hymn


Through clean aluminium

jumped a colourful, eccentric

hopeful sunshine

-in the colours of the rainbow -

in the first welcoming ceremony

of the sun like a little ballerina

at the edge of the window,

surrounded though

by an unfamiliar nervousness…


“In which language shall I speak

in order to be understood

by those who should understand me?”

… and she stayed silent

dancing in her african rhythm.


Through the cleanliness and the tidiness

of the room

flexible blood into the colourful brain-cranium

small veins 

without stoppage or result,

without an end.


Swarm buzzing in the mind

the dream of yesterday night.

Wood and leather sounded loud all day

beating each other,

when the sand rose and started to hammer

the white marble columns and walls.

The air brought in broken branches from trees,

dry grass and seaweed from the sea.


Then all of a sudden

the colourful ray started to sing out arias

and before the sun had completely set

she had sung the most beautiful song,

which stayed in history. 

In the name of love


I have created some little children

in the television screen

made them play against other teams

and I’m happy to watch them.

Who else cares?

Nobody except me who made them…


Plastic flowers around me

and small dolls.

Closed in my house for hours…


Here people don’t lose their time

occupying themselves with each other

so I have plenty of time available.


I am even thinking of placing

fake fish in my tank

since this year it stays empty…


Children be happy …we won!

They didn’t even understand it…

I am thinking that all these walls

will remain like structure

unless someone else lives here. 


Truth would be a white canvas

if there didn’t exist the million colours

of the human beings weaknesses

to paint it.

Many of those strokes

are happening in the name of love. 



A round of chess


Holding in my hand the horse,

I am thinking…

Why are all the big plans wrecked?

I don’t like to lose

although I learnt that as well…

I am thinking more before I play…

Why always the big ideas 

and movements

so quickly fray,

to be taken advantage of by others,

and forgotten.


They are not forgotten…

They weaken only for a while.


I concentrate, predict

take my precautions

arrange my thoughts 

and play…


Every piece plays a different role in this game

as well as in this round, like all the others.

The rounds are forgotten, 

together with the victories and defeats

and remains the passion, 

the new systems,

the new habits and strategies. 

There are no winners or losers 

but fighters and those indifferent.



Reminiscent reference


With those pages an old world was closed

in an isolated room

behind iron bars and a heavy padlock.

All things in place,

recall an old golden era and the need of creation 

of a different, new better one,

perhaps unaccompanied by the same problems.


Settled down paces after the dive

give new perspectives

and open up first seen horizons,

in the colours of a sunset,

calling someone to follow their path.


For a moment  you hesitate, enchanted

searching for reasons to stay there

stuck to the observer’s chair

until suddenly you realise

the need of a push by someone.


Of course you wonder if this is true

or just a need for eternal companionship,

with the same problems as the denominator,

whose purpose is the feeling of a familiar surrounding.


You stand and look around you.

The colours this time of day

while the sun is setting

look different and so do objects.


You look back at the sky

and you wonder who really cares

- except the one who is dead-

about those objects.


Personal belongings were placed 

only in the pyramids,

in the grave of the one who they wrapped,

and what could these essentials be?

Who was asked if he wanted them?

And what did he really want?


Gold, myrrh, silk, and precious stones.

How valuable are these

for someone changing life,

changing stages,

going to new dimensions?


You hesitate, watching the clouds in the sky,

you wash your tired face

and look at yourself in the mirror.

How much time is left?

Does it really matter?

I wouldn’t want it to only be an hour.

So be fast. 


The circle is complete.

You tidied up and open another door

and I am happy I had the chance

to even touch the handle. 



For a piece of land


A. Pyramid


The old wounds opened

but the map denies

yet to speak.


The intellect has almost managed 

to say good morning to stupidity,

while is dawn

and someone is in a hurry

to make his decisions.  

The old plans push,

the predictions hold you back,

but you have to decide

one or the other, now.

So confused, I took my way

this time for the aeroplane,

with the knowledge of reason

the choice of grave,

a pyramid with all the

as if... for the next life

useful equipment,

museum of tomorrow

with production and expiring

date labels and dogs eating

whatever was not useful

to others for the destruction

of this world and its people

which was whatever

giving me hope,

meaning and inspiration.


B. The carnival of life


In the carnival of life

they were very few nice people

with inexpressive eyes

who knew how not to say no,

others were speaking a lot

saying nothing

surrounding flatterers

like bees around honey. 

A few, again, knew

how to make you feel

who you are

and sometimes something 

more than that, proud.

One category does even not

deserve to be mentioned

and then the big variety

of unable rubbish

with disability for meddling,

the correct meddling,

correct appreciation,

disability for interest,

correct interest.


There on the side the mass.

The mass which you depend on

if you're packed in a bus,

if you will have money tomorrow

who will govern,

what kind of precautions

you will get not to steal you,

for if you must or not

tomorrow bring a child in this world.

Ten thousand people,

one million problems.

That spite has been locked

deep inside you.

You fall at night as a flower

closing your petals.

You wake up next morning

with no decision again.

C. Dawn


In dawn

without sleep, tired

I had taken my decision.

I should live as well

to be able to write... I said.

I will live here,

I will write next to that... I said.

I said that and a left.

I left again to be specific.

Hunter of old lost passion,

feeling like reaching it closer again

opposing lament after a sacrifice

resurrection of mind,

a unique path of triumph

in the last stop 

or the final one.


D. The field





Unknown each other

They started to realize...

An endless field

from the steps of the church

to the steps of all houses.





Sitting by myself in the armchair

I’m thinking.

I sat down not completely alone this time.

This time the past has become my companion.


The condition of our nerves

has started to depend

on the condition of our car,

our house, the sound of the stereo

and our wife if they exist…

And not because of the condition of our health

that part of it is our nerves.


Today I began to be afraid

of the aim of absolute peace.

I don’t know why

but the idea started to smell like death to me.

I decided to borrow inspiration

from the past

and built the present in front of me,

even though it could be late.


What do we really only need?

…one person…

and I get organised.



A new theory


Nothing is steady,

how can it be,

since our taste and truth,

change all the time

and everything relates to each other;

through the common filter

which is ourselves.


While ourselves are changing

following a circle,

it connects everything to each other

by its radius.


Time, shades of colour,

relationships, opposites,

presences and absentees

combinations and joins,

become one in the end.


All gods become one, as well.


The years are passing

and with them, the truth is changing.

Nothing remains the same

to be written in a book

like a unique reality.


The same with countries.


As a result of progression,

only the research remains.

The research starts from the point where

others think that they have already reached closer to the truth.



The young bird


The young bird

was standing on the edge

of the balcony.

It couldn’t fly,

it felt giddy.

What a pity for a bird!


I used to pick them up

for a few hours,

when I was a young boy

talking to them,

poking at them

to make them react,

whistling to them

to make them tweet back.


No one ever answered me.


How many  times we confuse

the dream with the reality…


My German friend,

was right

in what he was telling me,

there in the Cook Islands…


The carpet of happiness

laid out in front of me,

I hesitated.

To be in love

you -maybe- need

a history or a myth,

some common experiences

which raise the two people higher.


How many  times we confuse

the dream with the reality…


Maybe if we learnt how birds

communicate with each other,

maybe if we learnt how animals

communicate with each other,

maybe we would learn how to 

communicate better.

A natural need for expression,


Photography, writing, painting,

music, entertainment, intercourse,

reason, way of life…

and you often need to look

at two alive eyes.


Now it happens that I have 

fish in my tank,

others have dogs and people,

cats, others only people…

Most of the scientists,

they experiment

with nature and the animals 

from where they get their results…


If we only learnt how birds

communicate with each other,

if we only learnt how animals

communicate with each other,

maybe we could learn how to

communicate better.


The young bird heard

a familiar encouraging, chirping

and it flew away up to the sky. 



Your mind, an open window


The fair and the unfair.

An everyday struggle

for how much fair or much unfair

one has to be with others,

how tough,

in an everyday fierce competition.

Competition in everything

mostly business

the money

the social justification

the fame

balanced with opportunities and luck.


The common opinion 

when faced with someone

who does not have money

is sympathy,

for one who has,


for the one who shows he has,


and oh dear for the one who hasn’t

and pretends he has

if he is discovered.


The common opinion is strict

in fame as well, in one’s beauty,

his strength, his real value, his manners.


An everyday struggle 

for how much fair or unfair

someone has to be with others…

and if he cares for their opinion

they become happy

because he fell into the trap,

the stupid one

and if he doesn’t care

he will still be wrong.


People like blah blah blah

in order to convince them…

and leave them in silence.

I only know how to write

no one knew who I was when I was travelling.

I didn’t want to advertise myself

on the contrary, I put myself down,

to find out who could believe in me,

without references or sweet sounding tales,

who could believe without hearing,

who could believe so much in himself.

Very few, in an everyday struggle

for how much fair or how much unfair

someone has to be with others,

how much a fighter or indifferent

how much tough or tolerant.


Politicians stay for a few years in power

and then leave.

Factories can close down tomorrow

but I am here…

and I will stay a bit longer

through my writings.


And I tell you:

In one shift of balance

you find the truth.

You find it for a while

and you lose it again,

because it changes minute by minute,

like the ticks of the clock

in an everyday struggle

of fair versus unfair,

like the beats of your heart.


I know I sound a bit hard

and maybe sometimes someone could say

that what I am writing is lies.

Perhaps for a moment 

the things I write could sound unfair

but they could sound fair in another.



The bleach of time


Everything will grow older

the stereo will be ruined

the house will start to crack

and collapse.

The car will not operate anymore,

everything will go wrong with it

it will need to be replaced.

The dog will quickly grow older

and will be lost

taking with him all the orders

and the times of his companion.


Everything will grow older

and the house will be demolished

and I don’t know if love will fray as well.


Everything will grow older

and will hang

like mature grapes

and will rot and fall

to the ground

pecked by birds and stung by bees.


Everything will be demolished

and I don’t know 

if love will fray as well


Everything will grow older

and rusty.

new advertisements

will replace the old ones,


without us even realising it.


Without us understanding it,

we will start bending,

like this old person

in the corner of the street.


Everything will fray,

the clothes, the signs,

maybe the shine in the eyes

and I don’t know if love will fray as well.


Looks like people  

live in three different,

uncommunicating trips, to each other.

Some of them do everything possible

to conquer the earth,

for others it is enough to survive 

one more day

and feel happy they have managed

to do it

and others try to be at peace

with everyone and everything

and however it goes,

usually well.


Until everything slowly-slowly

grows old

and I don’t know

while they are growing older

if love will fray or will shine stronger.

A shock to the Art


Love can not be painted, can not be pictured,

can not be described by writing and

can not be played in movies.


The real love, I mean, exists,

unfortunately hiding behind

expressions and actions,

and if she does,

fails to express herself straight,

through fright.


She is frightened, persecuted.

She is afraid not to be denounced

whipped or wounded.


She hides everywhere and always,



Tear in two pieces the paintings

dig up a bit the photographs,

throw away the whipped cream

on top of the writings,

leave the actors alone to play

whatever they want,

make fragments of the statues

and the monuments,


and a word will flutter with no name

without flesh or bones, without price,

with only exchange a real smile of relief.


Love and Hate


Love flew on her white wings,

above heads wearing tall,

white, pointy hats like harlequins.


They wore white masks

with noses pointy and beaked,

and holding banners,

those street advertisers,

dancing to the rhythm of music,

others to their own mysterious rhythm,

on tall, wooden stilts.


Tourists shoved behind them

and grimaced at each other.

Many pretended they were within things,

others acted as spectators

and others were more thoughtful

without being able to do a lot about it.

The month of August, on an island,

where everything looked strange to them.


Everything was extreme, everyone was irritable,

they were smiling - nobody was laughing -

nobody was enjoying themselves,

like their predecessors some years ago

who it is said, had flowers in their hair,

were nude on the beaches

and it was said that there was

love and happiness among them.


It was said that there was no jealousy or hate,

like that felt by someone single

watching a happy couple,

who on becoming a couple themselves,

wonder why, only they meet the wrong other half.


Love flew on her white wings

above microchips and LCD screens,

at the time when everyone was in the web

of the internet, busy,

wearing rubber gloves to press the keyboards,

with squinting glasses on, only forward vision,

funny clothes, looking like soulless shop dolls,

with soldier like behaviour.


Some made prisons for four,

as many as their family members are

and others who didn’t

live free, but ultimately alone.


They pretend that racial prejudice does not exist,

neither does class distinction

and inside them boils the need to be distinct

like glowing coals after the fire

ready to burst into flames

with the first gust of wind


Religion, jobs, sexes, countries,

have become stickers, transparent labels

on our foreheads, ready to download into a computer.


Love passed above,

touching the heads of some,

and how difficult it is now

for them all to come together,

apart from the others

because love makes the mistake of forgetting

to leave labels in her path.

And a macho man stands up before you

he doesn’t let you see the others further on,

and there are many of these macho men

who want to make you macho as well

and provoke you to become one of them…

And you occupy yourself with all these things

while time passes and the day leaves.


Love flew on her white wings

and came to my room

to tell me to choose some people quickly.


Love turned her white wings to steel this time

to fly higher to touch all of the lost visions.

What she did there

was to embrace her lost children.



All above poems are courtesy of Dimitri Soulis writings property

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