Autor: Kyriakh Kampouridoy
Poesia
Livros
Ficção e literatura
Wanderer's Compass 
A Collection of Poems
The First Step
 
Beneath a sky of fractured glass,  
Where twilight bleeds and shadows pass,  
The wanderer stood at journey’s start,  
With aching feet and trembling heart.
What drove the steps from home’s embrace?  
A whispered call, a fleeting trace,  
Of something lost or yet to find—  
A compass spinning in the mind.
The road was long, the path unknown,  
Yet something pulled, a quiet tone,  
That echoed from the soul’s deep core,  
A need to search, a thirst for more.
The Labyrinthine City
 
In streets that twisted, turned, and wound,  
The city’s pulse, a ceaseless sound,  
The wanderer walked, with eyes half-closed,  
In search of truths the city posed.
Beneath the towers of steel and glass,  
Where every face a mirror’s mask,  
The wanderer lost, then found again,  
In endless loops of joy and pain.
A sage appeared, in robes of gray,  
With eyes that pierced the darkened day.  
“What do you seek, O soul that roams,  
In lands far from your hearth and homes?”
The wanderer paused, in thought and dread,  
Then spoke with words like rivers fed,  
“I seek the light that guides my way,  
The dawn that breaks eternal day.”
The sage then smiled, a fleeting grace,  
“Your light is here, within this place,  
Not in the streets, nor in the skies,  
But in the heart where truth lies.”
The wanderer knew, though not how clear,  
That answers sought were always near,  
Yet bound in flesh, in blood and bone,  
The path was one to walk alone.
The Phantom’s Call
 
In night’s embrace, when stars lay low,  
A whisper came, a ghostly flow,  
Of voices past, of memories pale,  
A phantom’s touch, a shadow’s wail.
“Why do you run?” the phantom cried,  
“From all you were, from what has died?  
Your past is here, it follows close,  
A specter’s grip, a lover’s ghost.”
The wanderer turned, with tear-stained eyes,  
To face the shade, to cut the ties.  
“I run to find what lies ahead,  
Not bound by what the past has bled.”
The phantom sighed, a mournful tune,  
A haunting song beneath the moon.  
“You cannot flee from what you are,  
Your past will follow, near or far.”
Yet still the wanderer pressed on,  
Into the night, towards the dawn,  
Knowing well the phantom’s cry,  
But seeking where the future lies.
The Infinite Desert
 
A sea of sand stretched out in gold,  
Where silence reigned and time grew old,  
The wanderer walked, a single trace,  
Across the vast and empty space.
Each step was heavy, burdened, slow,  
As thoughts weighed down like winter’s snow.  
The sun above, a fiery crown,  
Burned through the thoughts, the doubts, the frown.
What was it now, that pushed ahead?  
A longing deep, a fear unfed,  
Of dying here, in endless sand,  
With no one near to hold a hand.
But in the heat, a vision clear,  
A mirage danced, a voice drew near.  
The wanderer heard, through scorching pain,  
The sage’s words, like cooling rain:
“To walk alone is not your fate,  
The desert blooms, though it’s too late,  
When footsteps join, and hands entwine,  
The path will clear, the stars align.”
Yet still the wanderer pressed on,  
Alone through sand, till strength was gone.  
For in the end, beneath the skies,  
The desert spoke through silent cries.