What’s become of the flies 

   of nineteen thirty-four, 

Offspring of ancient fat flies 

  from the previous year—

Those with us 

   when we were the world’s youth—

What’s become 

   of the flies of my generation?

 

Remember in bedrooms their liveliness 

   completely independent from our own?—

Since, as you know, 

   according to nature’s law 

   the history of flies

And that of humankind

Evolve independently, without 

   interference or mutual sympathy.

 

Take the day for example 

   Venizélos died:

Mother cried and the flies

Buzzed round our human grieving

—Like passersby 

   near a stranger’s funeral—

Thinking only

Of their own dead.

 

Stylish, thin-waisted flies, with wings 

   transparent and laid out,

Evidence of impeccable tailoring

   over tiny black shoulders—

They compel me

   with their insistent song

   in a minor key

Toward some profound essence.

 

I remember them flying

   perpetually in motion above us,

Settling down sometimes

   in a warm swath of sunlight

—Eight in the morning,

   across tables and floors—

Coupled sometimes

as if doubled.

 

Such familiarity with humans,

   you’d think they were

   old acquaintances,

Though they’re merely

   transient, easy to grasp images

   of a timeless elusive archetype.

But as our acquaintances we remember them

   and mourn for them now.

 

Truly, we mourn for them,

And sincerely I confess to you that when

   we speak of our dead,

Parents or relatives

   or simply those we’ve known,

Calm in the sun like

   this year’s flies

—The youth of the world, our survivors—

 

I confess to you I feel tenderness

Even for flies 

   of past seasons

—Violating as a poet 

   nature’s law—

Tenderness for the dead 

   of another history, yes, 

   and its lost generations.