Even solitude sometimes,
turns to a bitter, lingering
loneliness that gnaws at my heart.
As what may seem isn't;
and with each stroke of silence
The abyss widens.
Long have I yearned for one
though spoke words none.
Within the fantasy of black letters
and blank pages
Him do I seek.
For ten good books are but a friend,
But one good friend is
Worth a library.
This poem has not been translated into any other language yet.
I would like to translate this poem