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.