CONSTANTINE'S RAVINGS (by Takis Sinopoulos -- in translation)
Ioanna is the rain
that departs from the ocean and advances into the evening.
A mist with roots under the earth.
Ioanna is a river.
She is a cloud behind a voice.
She is the smoke of burning herbs.
She is a second of ecstacy between two perils.
Ioanna is a river.
Ioanna is an austral window.
She is the kids who left the deserted square.
Ioanna is a face under the sky.
She is a sky under the sky.
She is a river.
Earth's light and darkness draw her laughter.
When the house collapses Ioanna exits her body and
sings elsewhere in the middle of the night.
Ioanna is a river.
Ioanna is the day before yesterday, yesterday, today.
(Today repeated perennially.)
She is as light as the sleepy head of a flower.
She is as heavy as a closed book.
She is a continuous announcement for the night.
With Ioanna you loose yourself and
you find it again in your sleep.
Ioanna is a river.
Ioanna is a river's bank.
She is a reed at the bank.
She is a shadow on the river.
She is a river.
Ioanna is a tree with eyes
a dream with a mouth
a sound with ears
a cloud with feet.
A river of golden hair whose dew calms the ocean.
A river.
Ioanna is a place that we saw for the last time.
A station where we will some day run into each other
howling through the journey's dust.
Ioanna is a boundary that keeps moving.
She is the down blown by the wind.
A feather lost in time.
A feather on the desolate Spring.
Ioanna is a river.
A river.
I cannot tell you what exactly Ioanna is.