A life too short to be small,
spent bruising noses.
Electric chairs do not light up the dark,
but then, self understanding,
looking backwards without turning round,
never was your strength.
You make riddles out of answers,
maps more real than the world,
hide secrets that you do not have.
Why is tyranny always better organised
than freedom, and happiness so hard-hearted?
This poem has not been translated into any other language yet.I would like to translate this poem