Thomas Hardy, the mayor of Casterbridge is none
But you,
Who married again at the age of seventy plus,
A girl younger than
Half of his age,
How could it,
How could it be, Hardy?
None but you are the drunkard,
The woman-seller,
Repenting as for having sold
The wife
In a bout of drunkenness,
Hardy,
Were you as such?
Hardy, you should not,
should not have married her,
The secretary and care-taker of yours,
Making her sacrifice
As for interest in literature,
You claimed yourself a great novelist.
Man is not a puppet into the hands of destiny,
But destiny a puppet into the hands of you
A novelist
Woman-seller and drunkard,
Himself immoral and fallen,
Speaking through someone else.
Happiness is bubble in the whole episode of man's life,
Say you,
But it's a bubble surfacing
In the peg of yours
When poured into the tumbler
And the drunkard's vision of life was it
The vision of your life,
A woman-seller and a drinker you.
This poem has not been translated into any other language yet.
I would like to translate this poem
Why did this strike me as funny af, ?