How Is This Possible?

How is this possible,
to sit every night down on my white table
and simply waiting for your writing?
Is this universal conspiracy or some strange
attraction that draws me close to you,
so much that stars melt like candles
or the icebergs of the north
in a fraction of minimal time,
turn into ice cubes inside my glass of brew...

How is this possible,
to sit in front of a screen these dead hours,
and just by caressing your face with my fingers end,
everything becomes crystal clear,
just like a newborn's first cry,
just like a fishing boat's light under the August sky,
as much as diamond tears slip down my eyelids,
the evidence of an oncoming tidal wave
spreading orgasmic notes of an unseen god
turns indisputable...

How is this possible,
to be here,smiling like a Renaissance angel
and at the same time roaring like a demon,
until you answer any day's lines,
I' ll be a private without his rifle or just a kid
that lost his way back home and scared as hell
squatting down an olive tree near the sunset,
prays for the holy night to cover his face,
until you answer any day's lines
any day will remain just any day,
and me a wanderer, who wonders:

How is this possible?...


Panagiotis Xourafas