by Kostas Ouranis
Translated by Alex Moskios

I will die a solemn Autumnal evening
In my chilly bedroom, like I lived: alone.
In my last agony I'll hear the rain,
And the street noises that come through my pane.

I will die a solemn Autumnal sun down
In the midst of old furniture and books scattered around;
They'll find me on my bed; they'll call the police;
They'll bury me like a man with no history to expound.

One of the friends in our weekly card game
Will ask while playing: “What happened to Ouranis?
Does any one know? I haven't seen him for days!”
Will reply another: “Don't you know? Ouranis just died!”

For a second they'll stop, holding cards in their hands,

They will move their heads in some kind of solemn repose,
They will say: “What is man! Yesterday he was alive!”
And without another word they will continue their game.

One of my colleagues in the “Psila” will write
That “Prematurely has died overseas Mr. Ouranis,
A young man well known in our circles, who only
Recently published a collection of promising poems.”

And that will be my life's only eulogy.
In the village my old folks will be sad and heart broken,
They will hold a memorial mass with priests to spare,
With my friends in attendance and the foes who would care.

I will die a dreary Autumnal sun down
In a rented room in the noisy Paris,
And a Katie, presuming I've forgotten her for another,
Will send me a letter and, though dead, she'll insult me.