People settle down at times, not wanting to do anything or go anywhere, just wanting to stay home day in and day out in years of love that never really mattered at all.
They couldn't be bothered with that mushy stuff; this poet always turned from it, not being able to believe in love, for to this mere poet it doesn't nor has it ever lived in this poet's world.
This poem has not been translated into any other language yet.
I would like to translate this poem