From what ever may come of this melancholy, I will ration like carrot tops. I have devoted everything to it and received nothing but promises to myself that are empty. As if out of spite for my life I fake the lesser, and repaint my flower bed with Ox blood so the grass will look greener next winter, when time freezes still like rain turns to sleet, only, the avenues here have been plowed over once before.
I cant leave this bubble gum here after all.
This poem has not been translated into any other language yet.
I would like to translate this poem