My Own Tomb - Larnaca Poem by Joseph S. Josephides

Dear students, now I sleep in the tomb. My sheets
are the petals of the white rosebush over me,
the stone I ordered for the grave is my pillow.

In the night my words phosphoresce and travel,
the letters, timber in fireplace, is a fervid companion
with you, in Noehof, Linardos, Gertrude and Stantz,
in Burgkorf, Minhenmponhze and Yvernton.

I gave you all I had; to orphans bread as knowledge.
You say that I received nothing in return. I did,
as I have taken sponge-cake as benediction of God.

Today the authorities of Brug reveals my bust.
Around my tomb I see cameras, wandering sellers,
guides prattling, long black jackets, newly rich ladies
showing off their jewellery stones over my grave stone.
Ah! This dust and that rambling disturb my tranquillity.

But when night falls, nature with a magic stick will call
the ultra mundane Order lower down to us and bless:
my stone, to sparkle a flame for a younger Prometheus,
my body as a root to elevate juice up to your rose-bush.

Children, the mature wheat-ear leans its head downwards,
but the empty one struts; the wind shakes upside down.
Look there, at Lugano. Socrates statue springs up

Look there, at Lugano. Socrates statue spring up
with his head leaning down like a mature wheat-ear.



© JosephJosephides