the gutter is not the nicest place to live
all the while you are too common and unnecessary
dispensable like a woman's napkin
but you live there just the same
there is pain in your stomach
you lose your guts
and when you die they do not mind at all
all people die anyway
and always there are others who replace you
from where you are
and then you are forgotten
you try to write some things in your journal
hoping that someone accidentally reads them
and you may have justified
your having been here, for once
they have no time and they too have many things to do
always
they come and go and leave and die and then finally forgotten
like nothing is really significant in this world
just like them
and you
and so why bother, why?
This poem has not been translated into any other language yet.
I would like to translate this poem