Isolation, those retreating seconds
before vacancy settles in.
Sedentary drifting, perception
in a thousand and one spaces.
I live here. That is something
to celebrate, I suppose.
For a man must be somewhere
and this is the situation
which I am occupying.
An electric fan is rotating
itself around the room of
hollowness that sharply defines
the brick walls of motivation.
Aspects of silhouettes tantalize
the intellect with opened drawers
stuffed with the debris of
other generations.
I'm confidant in
almost nothing
and so I
grit my teeth
in lines of
indifference.
Seek only truth.
That's the line of thinking
I've been taught to employ.
But which truth?
Which particular obscurity
is to be the one followed?
Best to not decide.
Best to stay undetermined.
Let the precipitation drip
down into the barrel.
This poem has not been translated into any other language yet.
I would like to translate this poem