The ideal of finding happiness
acquired by paying the price
of making a sacrifice of family
life, is an illusion, the delusion
that personal joy can be won
When we destroy the happiness
of another, mostly leads to great
tragedy, in happy sit-coms we
transmute it into tragicomedy,
a subject of great amusement
But when we try it for ourselves
our illusions are shattered, those
magnificent strangers are ready
to practice exploitation only,
while we only use them to
Boost our weak little ego, when
they look elsewhere for more
excitement, we only miss cheap
flattery and false compliments;
in fact
We are only in love -
with ourselves!
This poem has not been translated into any other language yet.
I would like to translate this poem
I agree - I also want to add that maybe this is not such a bad thing, as the rest of your poem is also true, is it not important to but love oneself at least?