Poem by Kostas Karyotakis

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.

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