Maelstrom by Giannis Zografakis

The world.

The absolute whole.

And everything is spinning in its center during the big inhalation.

And everything is un-spinning spiraling from it during the big expiration.

Every circle is a birth and a death. The eternal gives birth and kills whatever it gives birth to in order to see its existence through the mirror of everlasting change.

The world is whirling in its self, in the infinite horizon of events that no mortal could bear see.

The purgatory of forms. The eternal spin and consumption that brings all temporary patterns against chaos and the great despair.

The center is one and punctal, without substance and everything between the spot and infinity is infinitely bigger than the spot and infinitely smaller than infinity.

The mountains echo the Wolf's song as it calls on the moon to show him the eternal path and the moon weeps, because only to the voice that's leaving it can reveal the secret road.

And the Wolf stands alone, on the faraway peak, in the center and the brinks. In the emptiness of the big maelstrom that gathers the similar with the similar and separates the world from existence.

There, at the brink of the world, no one else can stand, and is not worthy to declare to the world that it exists.

Translated from Greek by yours truly.