life is a weak flame
that burns in the winter lamp
scared to be blown off
by strong winds for by men
life is evil
it kills he who uses it
and abandon those who enjoys it
it laughs on those who ends it
and those who waste it
life is an intertesting story
which starts perfectly
goes on quickly
and ends finally
u read it and enjoy it
but pity on the ending
but being busy with your life
u soon forget that story
and one day yours itself
leaves a beginning and an end
This poem has not been translated into any other language yet.
I would like to translate this poem
I can viscerally relate to this portrait, as in the portrait of an artist as a young man by Joyce. It is parochial in form and yet maintains the ascetic distance from preaching. This summation is more pathos than cynical but you have somehow captured the fraility of existence and the existential notion of being only to be. That is all we are sparked for, (from your opening verse) like a grass fire we are ignited by one another and like vessels pour ourselves from one to the other and like the sea we drown one another in our miseries. But all the while we are islands unto ourselves.