Morning consciousness

In bright mornings

my consciousness dives

into white patches

stardom or a ceiling.

All this talk

its untidy waves

of cloth and satin

scattered across the wood.

I ask myself

what this world will be like

in thousand years to come.

The smoked stars

from underneath;

the seven seas

resisting land;

the little problems

that people fear as beasts;

belittled causes

of some anxiety

infinitely escaping

desires for cosmopolitanism.

In thousand days to find

to count one per one

to count the stars

to be predictable, pedestrian

and to be called picturesque

by hazy eyes.

In theory

all starts as settled

and ends in compromise.

4 March 2018,

fieldwork in Samothraki.