As published in Volume 10, NO 4, December 2013
IN REMEMBRANCE OF THEODOSIS NIKOLAOU At the tavern, as we were drinking cognac, you told me we had to close the bottle tightly lest its aroma flee; a guardian of quintessence. Unperturbed, contemplative at the bottom of the swirl of things. Subdued to the meaning of art and the density of the moments. In communion with Papadiamantis, Solomos and Cavafy. The form of the shimmering vessel drew closer and closer to them. They were touched by the voice their soul quivering by the deep shudder of the initiation to the streets of silence. To departure, the way you built it. A Doric, white column by the chisel of a dexterous craftsman. IN REMEMBRANCE OF THEODOROS STYLIANOU Last Thursday, Slowness and Kundera I should call… I should say once more how you managed to throw yet another stone into the swamp of the wheeze. I should say you’ve given shape to the depths of the puberty of dreams. You never drove a car. The bus took you to Panagra “to the silver that glistened in the afternoon…” The entire orchard and the sea - yours without a property deed. By bus you carried your adolescent gaze leaning against the window carving that slight smile on the perennial face of repletion and endurance. You always stood out without being ascetic. You couldn’t drive. Yet you drove your soul beyond the foreign lairs of sumptuous affectation. Richer than anyone else, unbeknownst to you. You denied the roles and the change of scenery. The bus the intercity taxi and the phone carried your gifts; they strolled down the nobility of those humble and innocent at the edge of your untainted gaze. At the edge of your serenity. Translated by Despina Pirketti