Επιμέλεια: Εύα Πετροπούλου Λιανού
When life comes to its end,
we will cry in a quiet voice… for moments of joy that passed,
killed by trivial things that led to nothing.
Anger… insistence… and stubbornness,
that can never take us back to where we once were.
The years leave us behind,
thoughts collide within our minds,
words grow old and fade away,
while regret, pain, and the burning of the soul take over.
Back then, we were brought together by familiarity and warmth,
but time began to scatter us,
until meeting became a wish… something close to imagination, even if it happens.
We blame ourselves for what we have lost,
and the days pass, slowly extinguishing within us
the eagerness of beginnings.
We grow older while carrying inside us
children who have lost their way.
We try to repair what has been broken within us,
but the old cracks continue to bleed in silence.
Memories become an alternative homeland,
we return to them whenever the present tightens around us,
searching for faces, laughter, and wishes…
And we ask:
How did all those beautiful details slip away from us?
Was time harsher?
Or were we the more reckless ones?
Then we realize… too late:
that we did not know how to hold on to the details of life.
We were chasing days, counting disappointments,
hiding postponed dreams,
and forgetting the most beautiful things:
closeness, warmth,
and those moments whose value we only understood after they had passed.
Many people passed through our lives…
some left within us a shadow that never fades,
and some taught us that leaving is not always by footsteps,
but by silence… by neglect… by cold betrayal.
We grow old when we cry without a sound,
when we suppress thousands of words in our hearts,
when we pretend to be strong while we collapse inside,
like old buildings worn down by time.
Small dreams become a luxury,
meetings become postponed dreams,
and the words that were never said
become a burden we carry in our chests and on our backs wherever we go.
And there… in a corner of the soul,
we hide all those letters that were never sent,
and the wishes we were too shy to express,
placing them in an old box called:
“If time could return…”
What would we have done?
