(To John Donne)

Charon, Charon
I think of you.
Per fretum fibris,
where are you?

I cannot see you,
got no coin.
My parched tongue
and aching loin.

Black river Lethe,
what a creep.
It certainly is
fathoms deep.

Old man show mercy,
send me back.
More jest for life
is what I lack.

Charon, Charon
I pray to you
because I’ve got
this damned ‚flu.