Επιμέλεια: Εύα Πετροπούλου Λιανού
FAULTLINES
There is no magic
Nor no music
In a straight line
It gathers romance
Only when it winds
Down valleys and up the hills.
A train passing through hills
Carries far greater joy
Than a train
Running in plains
And I wonder a camera
Would bother its colourless jaunts.
Art has nothing to say
When life moves like a train
In plains,
Exciteless, and lacking
Romance, beauty and charm
To tell a thing in a hundred ways
Passions, deprivations, excitations,
Allegations, tears, fears,
Losses, rivalries,
Fights, killings, sighs,
Are the stuff of art, in paint or plaint.
It is fault lines which invite
The attentions of the artists, painters,
Writers and critics,
Or who would bother a life
Lived turmoil free in jerkless harmony.
