Comments about Elpinoras West
The walls of the old country-house were pitch white, their texture
rough like all childhood questions and sins
(the primal fear that we would get sucked by the countless holes of the nocturnal sand - in reality traces of passers-by that would vanish with the early morning breeze) .
The cicadas of winter frozen on the trees, still in the singer's posture,
(their yellowish crusta wasn't giving us the creeps back then) .
A secret enigmatic sea was roaring from afar, her toxic sighs discolouring our sleep in reminiscence
of an untold fairytale which I always knew was ...