I write now as a hobby
All the great ambitions are gone
I keep myself busy
I allow myself delusory hope sometimes
But I know I know I know
I gave my life to a dream
That did not come true
I am not and will never be a literary immortality
I am a small schnook and failure in literature
But I am for now still here
A human being
Not a bad one
Not cruel I hope
A kind small man
Like everyone else
On his way to the grave.
This poem has not been translated into any other language yet.
I would like to translate this poem