morning on the terrace
at Olympus Heights Hotel
the Gods are there in numbers
and life seems kinda swell
modesty don't become them
they're hardly in disguise
with self-proclaiming tee-shirts
and shades bedim their eyes
breakfast is a subterfuge
a confusion of delights
to titillate yet not to whet
extremist appetites
we don't want distant thunder
we're hanging from a thread
of course we're bloody nervous
we all could wake up dead
This poem has not been translated into any other language yet.
I would like to translate this poem