In the olive grove I see a group print of ghosts,
stumps of amputated boughs painted white;
I look for a pen to draw eyes noses and ears,
to bring life to expressionless, pallid faces.
I have a ghostly photograph on my cottage's
wall, it's from my merchant-navy college days,
the group of smiling youths are all dead now
except for two, we're old timers spit and wait.
How young we were, 'here we are, life, ' smile,
bitter regrets hadn't yet clouded our features;
suit, tie and short hair, pre beat generation, our
heroes were John Wayne and Edgar G. Hoover.
It is almost unbearable to see them like this,
I look for a pencil got to make up for lost time,
redraw their faces and bring them back to life.
Comments about this poem (spectre by oskar hansen )
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