Funeral
We buried him, yesterday afternoon, in the freshly dug soil,
as if he was a young twig, the poet with his gray beard.
His only sin: so much he loved the birds that to punish him
they didn’t come to his funeral.
Sun went down behind the army barracks with the victims
of tomorrow and a lone hawk, the song lover, sat on the oak
branch; women lamented for the day’s yellow rapture and after
approving everything the hawk flew away, as though to define
distance. Wind blew over the lake surface searching for the traitor
who had run to the restaurant on the opposite shore where
judgement was passed, while the ancient cross remained with
no corpse.
Everyone felt joyous, wine and finger food had to do with it,
the hawk returned with news of the beggar who extended
his hand and softly begged, ’two bits, man, God bless your
soul, two bits.’
I like all those who live only to die so they can
reach the other shore.
Manolis Aligizakis 