User:Sadbuttrue92
Death are the jackdaws bashing
against the black walls and roof tiles,
death are the women being loved
in the course of onion peeling.
Death the filthy, unimportant streets
with their glamorous and pompous names,
the olive-grove, the surrounding sea, and even
the sun, death among all other deaths.
Death the policeman bending over
to weigh, a "lacking" portion,
death the hyacinths on the balcony
and the teacher with his newspaper.
Base, Guard, Sixty-man Prevezian centuria.
On Sunday we'll listen to the marching band.
I've taken out my savings booklet,
my first deposit drachmas thirty.
Walking slowly on the pier,
"I exist?" you say, and then: "you do not!"
The ship approaches. The flag is flying.
Perhaps Mr. Nomarch is coming.
If at least, among these people,
one would die of sheer disgust
silent, bereaved, with humble manners,
at the funeral we'd all have fun.
Kostantinos G. Karyotakis, (1896-1928)
Translation to English: mine cc by-sa
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