Why be afraid of a knife in a word,
A blade in a vowel, or serrated syllables;
Why not admit that to live is absurd-
Or that though some live, some are barely able?
When whispered projectiles are portents of doom-
A glint of the eye, an upturned inflection-
And a thousand stings can live in one room;
If death is the end, life is the infection.
This poem has not been translated into any other language yet.
I would like to translate this poem