Writing, such an egocentric art;
And who called for it to exist,
And why is this ones words
More to be relished, than that ones?
Who has the truth and who the remnants?
The biggest ego wins in all things;
As the lesser ones call a truce, from humility alone,
The bigger one moves in stealthily
To fill up the enlarging room
With his engorged bulk;
Soon becomes full and throbbing
With self importance:
He resembles another element
Commonly found in the presence of mankind-
A noisy engine, of predictable annoyance
Repeating it's own name, like a mantra.
This poem has not been translated into any other language yet.
I would like to translate this poem
man this one makes me proud of all the great quiet anyones who do what they like for themselves or for love. thanks for writing about this