Biography of Elis Mita
Elisavetio or Elis Mita, is an Italian and greek roots artist (painter) , poet, lyricist, historian, reflexionist, political scientist and activist.
Born on December of 1987.
Gratuated on Athens College of Fine Arts, Fine Arts University of United Kingdom, Literature's Institute Robert Burns, then at Ècole Nationale Supèrieure De Beaux Arts de Paris, practic on History of Art in Rome (Studi Storici, Storia Dell'Arte) and degree on Political-Social Sciences & History of University Panteon of Athens.
Creators of more than 5000 artworks and partecipant in Art's Exhibitions around the world, with most viewed paintings like: " The Orphan" , " The Son" , " Mamma" , " The God" , " Gavroche" , " Oliver Twist" , " The Immortality In Person" , " La Petit Katysha" , " Dignitè, Humanitè, Èternitè" , " Dasfydanja" , " Romantism" , " Little Hellas" , " No One Had Born Enemy" , " Piccole Grandi Margherite" , " Nemesis Suicide" , " Italia" , " O Little Melancholic And Fearless Highlander" etc.
From the few were has the capacity to write in various languages, has wroten in Italian, Old Roman (Latinus) , Greek, Ancient Hellenic, French, in English, in Scots Gaelic etc.
Author of most than 300 poems that will be published soon in Italian, Greek, Scots Gaelic, English, Russian, French, Albanian, Spanish, Turk, Maltese, Serb-croatian and Portuguese languages.
Elis Mita Poems
I. One day someone saw. Devil and God together. Somewhere above.
The Death asked, one day the Life: '-People adores me and hates you. Why? ' And Death response to her with smile:
If kisses were raindrops. I'd send you shower. If hugs were seconds. I'd send you hours.
I Love. Because I've felt the hate. I know. Because I've learned from mistakes.
Quelli che ringraziano dopo un gesto o una cortesia non dovuta. Quelli che sorridono apertamente ad una faccia che non si è mai veduta. Quelli che come un pò d'altri tempi, ti aprono gli occhi e diventano esempi. Quelli che come margherite speciali, rinascono in mezzo al cemento.
Forward O Goddess! Forward O Mother! Forward O Greece! The eyes cried and the soul hurted. Only you need...
From where I shall, the story to begin? When the soul, escapes, deep within. In the middle o' the centre, of the earth. There where, the hurted glory, still burns.
O Mother! The flower most beautiful. Column 'n tower.
The frozen streets in moonshine glitter. The moonlight hour has long been ha'd. Ah me! the wind blows deadly 'n bitter. And I'm alone, in peace and far.
As I go through this life at a frenzied place. It's clear why call it the human race. Why run to and fro with deadlines 'n goals. With rarely a chance to rest our poor souls.
Heart's donor, I will be.
For not being buried in the dust.
To live she and to loves you.
And let it be in another man...