you are this kind of man
when shown of a boat
and then you
bluntly ask:
when will it sink?
you are this kind of man
who when shown
of the flower blooming in summer
and a butterfly flying
in the air
you simply say:
they have nothing to do with me
as though
everything is meant for death and destruction
as though
everything beautiful in this world
is nothing but
impertinent and irrelevant
you are too blunt
slanted
and too insensitive:
we have nothing to do with you, too.
This poem has not been translated into any other language yet.
I would like to translate this poem