The end of the feast
Armin Schibler
When with Socrates the friends did drink
and their heads began to sink onto the upholstery,
a young man came - I can remember -
with two slender flute-playing women.
From our goblets we shake the dregs.
Lips, tired from speaking, fall silent.
About the wilted wreaths comes singing:
silently, Death's slumber-flutes sound.