CIVIL SERVANTS
The civil servants melt and wither
in pairs like columns in the office
the city and Death must be
the electricians who replenish them.
They sit on their chairs, they scribble
without reason on innocent white paper
along with this correspondence
we have the honour they affirm
and only honour’s left to them
when they climb up the street
at night eight o’clock as if tuned
they buy chestnuts, think of the law,
the exchange rate and shrug their shoulders
the poor civil servants.
Manolis Aligizakis 