my friends will have a hard time
figuring out the real compass
of my north, for i make the impression
that i am bound south,
slow and not so sure, i keep walking
and they do not really know if i am with
them or against them
when they begin to talk i
pretend that i am their best friend
and when they laugh
i do not really join them
they always suspect that there is something
wrong with my capacity for
honesty or they simply leave me
for what they think i am,
secretive man, always keeping things
to himself, only wanting to survive
life's harsh treatment of himself,
i do not tell them, actually of some
miseries
i fear that i will just be another one
like them.
This poem has not been translated into any other language yet.
I would like to translate this poem