2021.10.09.
Old Dimos died
I got old, my boys. Fifty years being a brigand*i haven't enjoyed sleep, and now, exhausted
i am finally getting some sleep. My heart has dried up
My blood was shed like a fountain, i am left without even a drop.
I want go to sleep. Cut a branch from a mountain tree
i want it to be green and fresh, to be blooming,
and go on make my bed and put me there to lay down.
Who knows what kind of a tree shall spring up from my grave!
If it springs up a plane tree, in its shadow
young brigands will come and hang their weapons.
And they shall sing about my youth and my bravery.
And if a beautiful and black-dressed cypress grows,
young brigands will come and take pine cones,
to clean their wounds, and say a prayer for the soul of Old Dimos.
..........................................................................
Run, my boy, fast, run up to the hill
and shoot with my riffle. In my sleep
i want to hear for the last time, its sound.
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Old Dimos heard the riffle gust, in his deep sleep
his pale lips smiled, and he crossed his arms...
Old Dimos died, Old Dimos passed away...