Unbelonging, poetry written by Danae Spyrou at Spillwords.com
Andrey Zvyagintsev



written by: Danae Spyrou


I never believed in anything.
I always belonged to the denial of the shapes
that molds this endless bloodstream
elongating this sickness
and the illusion of meaning.
Like a baby bird falling from its nest.

How everything infected everything
and how abstraction was the only escape.
The coping mechanism that knifes maps on my ribs.
It has never been my body,
but it belonged to me.

I’m thinking about love
how people breastfeed on it;
its anticlockwise callings, the immensity of its parallel galaxies,
its carnivorous mumbling,
the zenith. The tedious exhaustibility of the Other.

I touch my roots and I sing the melody of the mountains.
A song that turns the rivers black.
The oscillating rhythm of a voice too old to die.
It wasn’t my voice,
but it belonged to me.

That night I decided to draw a circle around me.
I have nothing to call my own. I am raw and naked.
A new-born showing its teeth to people. They leer and leave.
This war seems endless
like uncharted waters. Like the eye of a tornado.

Latest posts by Danae Spyrou (see all)