Mornings I walk past the first cemetery of Athens.(Poem)

 
Mornings I walk past the first cemetery of Athens 
 
   Like a widow, every day the grey Dawn comes 
   To the Proto Nekrotapheio, and sweeps the crumbs 
   Of Night from tombstones, and the marble busts. 
 
   The stone cutter in his workshop contemplates, 
   Chisel in hand, the blank face of clean slates. 
   The waitress at the cafe mops and dusts. 
 
   A priest sits at his newspaper and tarries 
   ...