Truth is this cold would kill
a bear and Stadiou Street is
bitter, but tonight will pass: the dogs
will come... I've scavenged
what's left of two hamburgers
from the bin in Omirou Street,
they'll eat them, they'll curl up beside,
they'll get warm, I'll get warm.
Eh, no way I'll die of their lousiness
before I die of the cold!
Let them go home, quarrel
with their wives over the kids
and with their kids over school,
let them see how they're sworn at
on TV, let them stuff themselves,
let them turn down the heating
before going to bed and let them die
of stupidity before they die of the heat.
I'll be here and I'll be dreaming
of the evening papers:
‘Minister dies of heat
amid arctic cold! '
Some chance! This cold is mine,
we've been through a lot together.
It doesn't bother me.
Translated by David Connolly
This poem has not been translated into any other language yet.
I would like to translate this poem