Death is the bullies bashing <br />against the black walls and roof tiling, <br />death is the women being loved <br />in the course of onion peeling. <br /> <br />Death the squalid, unimportant streets <br />with their glamorous and pompous names, <br />the olive-grove, the surrounding sea, and even <br />the sun, death among all other deaths. <br /> <br />Death the policeman bending over <br />to weigh, a 'lacking' portion, <br />death the harebells on the balcony <br />and the teacher with the newspaper. <br /> <br />Base, Guard, Sixty-man Prevezian Rule. <br />On Sunday we'll listen to the band. <br />I've taken out a savings booklet, <br />my first deposit drachmas thirty one. <br /> <br />Walking slowly on the quay, <br />'do I exist?' you say, and then: 'you do not!' <br />The ship approaches. The flag is flying. <br />Perhaps Mr. Prefect will be coming. <br /> <br />If at least, among these people, <br />one would die of sheer disgust <br />silent, bereaved, with humble manners, <br />at the funeral we'd all have fun.<br /><br />Kostas Karyotakis<br /><br />http://www.poemhunter.com/poem/preveza/
