Yiorgos Likos
THE WINDMILLS
A little further beyond from the houses' white foam by the sea of the yearly wind gold tentacles of the sun crawling on the farmland slowly gather and write with cinnabar the ruined mills and mythical dead birds. Human hunting always for new machines that release hands hands raised ruins in the west.
LIGHT'S SHRUB
Sun sun sun an awesome leap the death teeth.
PROPHET
Old man with a sprig of beauty in the desert stick half-burnt fir rustling in the memory But they shout danger To die.(Transl. Panos Bosnakis)