Sometimes he does not like himself very much.
Even on days when he thinks he's fine
There's this gnawing sense in his mind
That he is, quite simply, not very nice.
There are times, of course, when he surprises himself,
But then there are other times when
He knows he's not worth knowing,
Is not interesting,
When he has nothing useful to add,
Preferring to sit sullenly and await the point
Where he can return to his chosen solitude.
This poem has not been translated into any other language yet.
I would like to translate this poem