Like misanthropes, we hide
Away from the troubles
And cares of this god-forsaken world.
We seek refuge in our words,
Our books,
Our music,
Each other.
We run and laugh,
And weep and hate,
All in the same moments
Of the same days.
Because no one really likes each other.
Not really.
Not one bit.
Not at all.
This poem has not been translated into any other language yet.
I would like to translate this poem