It is, more than ever, a petty world, divided,
priorities are inverted, real dangers are ignored,
laughter has disturbance as its source.
An odd desire for silence then, a current motivation,
a private section in a hidden garden beneath
a childhood tree or a secret sea for floaters.
Such morose conjectures serve but to famish further
parades of starvlings at the King's fine feast,
the draining of all conscience.
This poem has not been translated into any other language yet.
I would like to translate this poem