Conrad, who at 19 ran guns
for the Colombian Right
as an excuse for adventure and money,
is no exception to the rule
that early you're fools.
Later, darkened by men in the Congo and Belgium,
as mad Kurtz's last words,
Conrad writes what he cried at 19,
anally abscessed and passing hard stools.
This poem has not been translated into any other language yet.
I would like to translate this poem