i work so hard,
i know you know.
i work all the hours of the day
with a little break for lunch
and then i go back to work again.
my brain aches.
my fingers tremble a little bit
my soul shuts up as my body
does all the thinking and working.
after that, i write.
and so i write as a dead tired man.
what do you expect beauty from this
write up?
if exhaustion is beauty, then it is.
This poem has not been translated into any other language yet.
I would like to translate this poem