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.