A poem already bad gets even worse.
No mortal effort can improve it.
Effort spoils it even more.
It turns ever murkier –
a permanent mishap.
All writings have to take a long detour
around it.
How should I treat that inert, lead-like heavy body
before which all poems that finally appear look
like mere butterflies,
and all criticism
mere ashes.
Among the humans it recognizes
me alone.
And I too am human only so long as I remain
human.
This poem has not been translated into any other language yet.
I would like to translate this poem