i understand fully
why
you underestimate pain and its
thresholds
you look down upon persistence
equating it with
a compulsion
why you underrate pain as a character
trying hard to be felt
by an indifferent audience
more interested in ball games
politics
and business and today's weather
why you pay lip service to
a struggle
a cause
why you consider religion as a set of mores
a conduct
nothing but a Sunday show of
compliance
why you consider depression as a form of
dramatic training
why sorrow is a script of an opera
that has value only when it registers
huge sales in the theater
do we share these same events?
are all these present in our old houses
as old photographs
as memoirs, as a scrapbook
of family secrets
a bible of our nights
a clique
a novel that we set aside because we have been
reading all the pages
ever since childhood?
This poem has not been translated into any other language yet.
I would like to translate this poem