THESE LITTLE POEMS ARE ALL I CAN WRITE NOW
These little poems are all I can write now
The rest is gone.
But these poems too question themselves
Doubt their own value and reality.
After such a long road
I am still uncertain.
Nothing I have done
Resonates with recognition of its worth.
Old and alone still
I write on.
Sisyphus had a rock
Which grew so heavy with the years
He could barely begin
To roll it up the hill again.
This poem has not been translated into any other language yet.
I would like to translate this poem