Thinking, thinking all the time,
Up and down, life, prose and rhyme,
In the solitude of Time,
In the solitude of morn,
Life inserts its painful thorn,
For existence is a myth,
Knowing not, why we exist.
There's not a why And that's why I Try to get by And wait to die
This poem has not been translated into any other language yet.
I would like to translate this poem
How painful is a thorn that doesn't exist? personally, where all of my consciousness is, is my existence and that is right here right now ever see the movie The Peaceful Warrior?