Poem by George Souris


White hair on the head

is thought a bad omen

as if the Fate’s curse

insults my old age

Anywhere I set my foot

everywhere I walk

Hades surely follows

yet slowly enough.

Dogs that encircle

this decaying body,

you too have had your bread

my foe and friend both underline

and so I run, a ghost at night

away from the active world

and each grave that I find open

seems like it opens for me.