Sometimes a man thinks he's clever
if he avoids love,
the entanglements of feminine wiles.
But in the end, there is only loneliness,
the immense emptiness
of leading the family-less and childless existence.
If you survive eighty years on earth,
it passes like a summer breeze or a brief kiss,
and all that remains is a cemetery stay
that will lack all tranquility and poetry
if there is no one to bring you flowers.
3: 36AM 12-22-2016
This poem has not been translated into any other language yet.
I would like to translate this poem