I am comforted by nothing readily.
Not the spirit, nor the pen.
Are friend to me.
And, the cup of wine I drink, be
With acerbity.
That, cup which makes my head hang
So,
heavily.
And, when, I say, I am a poet
By design
Then, I say,
Accursed, I be!
But, it is this I will save,
Forsaking all other company.
And, for all the compulsion, which,
I abhor in me.
I stand among the ranks
Of the well spoken.
But, the poor
In this eternity.
So, for all that must be said,
Then let it be come from me.
Just say of me,
That, I lend a hand at clarity.
forsaking all other company,
This poem has not been translated into any other language yet.
I would like to translate this poem