The Overseers Poem by Mischa Andriessen

Like leopards men lie
on the cold, marble floor
they are bald and naked, honest
and I am sick to death of them.
I call the overseers.
They come: the overseers
tomorrow morning they'll swing.
Yeah, whatever, I mumble
but they have found them
young men, beautiful young women
already being led to the courtyard
they will shout something from their guidebook
refuse the blindfold, as if that proves anything.
Then it's up to me, one word
and they will be set free, my power as unlimited
as my alienation, but it's not about me.

Translation: 2017, David Colmer