All I have now is poems
The other Literature has deserted me
The long patience and the long waiting and the long distance
All that is gone
And I am confined
To little lines
I dream in a short time-
Old age should not feel so hurried
But the sense of an end impending
The loss of a long future to grow in
Less Time less Space
And so I write my little lines
As if they still can rescue me
From what Literature
Greater than mine
cannot either.
This poem has not been translated into any other language yet.
I would like to translate this poem