I am a man with no ambitions
And few friends, wholly incapable
Of making a living, growing no
Younger, fugitive from some just doom.
Lonely, ill-clothed, what does it matter?
At midnight I make myself a jug
Of hot white wine and cardamon seeds.
In a torn grey robe and shapeless hat,
I sit in the cold writing poems,
Drawing naked figures in the crooked margin,
Fornicating with the insatiable
Virgins of my imagination.
This poem has not been translated into any other language yet.
I would like to translate this poem
True geniuses, may it be a poet, are generally whimsical and they are governed, in a way, by their whims and they do not bother for consequences. Superb presentation of a genius.