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Wind of [Meta]morphosis

As the breeze passes slightly above the top of the Minoan hills
it touches the surface of the sea and reaches my trembling lips;
and I am shivering coming across a soft, rapid feeling of truth
the one that keeps escaping my open hands
continuously with no mercy and no return.
If I could freeze this realization for a single moment 
I could glance it better;
I could understand it more,
but I cannot freeze it with flame,
I am moving as it is moving on a moving planet.
With my eyes wide open and no matter the blury horizon
I am fighting, every single day,  against my own deceptions
against the illusions of the race and the distortive fears of my nature.
Every single morning I am building up on the same ground
and I every single night I am leaving the "battlefield" for a dream.
Is the “war” leading us at the same place like peace?
Does the journey create the very meaning of the destination?
Are we amateurs acrobats on a chaos, without any safe net
no matter the effort, no matter the struggle, no matter the sacrifice?
How can we free ourselves with tinny pieces and reflections of truth?
What do we really keep with us and for how long?
Is it just the people that we loved and they loved us?
Are they only the ideas which are breathing through our own veins?
Are they the hopes that they 've survived through the pain and desperation?
As no matter what we do, we cannot learn everything,
we cannot get anything and we cannot hold anything, but for a while…
There are places that we will never visit
and creatures that they will never meet to reflect new truths upon us;
There are words that we will never say, even if we are thirsty to listen to them
and lovers that we will necer meet,
even thought they might had the key of our heart.
There are books that we will never read
and art  which its aesthetic beauty will resist
our efforts and the passion for possession 
and flowers that we will never smell
and songs and dances and countries and.....bodies
and big eyes of life and youth that will never come across...
How can we recreate the distorted image
and accept it fot what it is, no matter the mistakes or the gaps?
How can we [re]construct the puzzle without all the pieces available?
The wind pushes away what “we can’t”, like the the autumn leaves,
the same wind spreads around the new seeds for the Spring
far away from their very root, away from the known future of a vicious cyrcle,
towards the unfolding potentiality of a new ground, of a new epoch;
it ia the wind of Metamorphosis.

(to Helen Weisz for the Inspiration)

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