Επιμέλεια: Εύα Πετροπούλου Λιανού
There is no sleep—
the stairways of the house remain awake all night.
When time shifts, the closed doors will open;
women will once again arrange the household like birds.
Dreams cannot be found—
inside sleep, one must count the hours of waiting,
discard basil flowers
to stain the unreachable hours red.
On the slats of memory, there are no flashbacks—
only the illusion of broken trust,
stories of fallen leaves,
nothing but the sorcery of fog,
a collage of sleepless nights.
In war, red eyes measure loss.
The stored shadows of tomorrow ignite the evening,
casting light—
at the end of the story, the morning traveler calls out:
open the doors of the shadowed passage.
