It piques my little self to know
That though I live, the world is so
Disdainful of my every thought and word,
Deleting them as utterly absurd.
Others too before me must have felt peeved
That they endured unknown and died ungrieved,
As though their phrases and creative worth,
Made not a jot of difference to Sun or Earth.
We are the human mediocrities.
Perhaps we found no listener to seize
A casual remark of ours to change the way
We formulate the context of our stay
In lifetimes, mine and yours, of me and you,
Distinct though akin to some Xanadu;
But we endure to claim it is not fair
That we don't matter either here or there.
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This poem has not been translated into any other language yet.
I would like to translate this poem
Well, perhaps the art we create can be judged as mediocre, that really depends upon the critical standards used to assess it. And to what purpose we dedicate it: if our goal is (in the words of Dylan Thomas) to praise God and love humanity, our poems can only be seen as worthy. Whether the world out there acknowledges them or not. And that appreciation you express for nature, melody and literature - that's the essence of the life we poets live, and it is the best possible life.