For some, ardent reading forms its own end,
A drawn-out, lonely, unpaid profession.
Even as pastime, it’s viewed as creepy.
The mind greets ghosts, and no good to pretend
You’ll get much respect. It’s not even fun
Most of the time. The classics aren’t easy.
This is why you will find literary
Types are either phonies or psychopaths.
Try to ditch the former. Trust the latter.
The true readers know that it’s quite scary:
All the hours spent alone, lost in the past.
They survive waves of prattle and patter.
They have learned how little is to be gained
From bragging of all the worlds they’ve sustained.
This poem has not been translated into any other language yet.I would like to translate this poem