You say Poetry is obsolete,
The idle occupation
Of decadent bourgeoisie,
Hoping to pass for wise and clever
Parroting lines and thoughts
They only half understand at best.
That I should follow your example
And care only to live the good life:
Eat, drink and make merry
And leave books to themselves
Since anyway, they end up being
Merely a tasty morsel
For many an illiterate worm.
I say if you strip your life,
Good or otherwise,
Of all the fluffy padding,
You should get a good poem.
If you don't, then there's nothing there
To begin with: no elusive core
Beneath endless layers of onion skin.
You peel them all off, shed a tear or two,
Laugh a hearty laugh, dance a little dance,
And then one day you die
No wiser than before, to end up
Merely another tasty morsel
For many a clever worm.
This poem has not been translated into any other language yet.I would like to translate this poem