I donít like the fatal outcome, I never get tired from life. I donít like any season of the year When I get ill or when I drink. I donít like the cold cynicism, I donít believe in confidence, Or when a stranger reads my letters, Looking over my shoulder. I donít like when half of the talk Or the conversation is interrupted. I donít like when one shoots in the back, Iím also against shooting head-on. I hate the fabricated gossips, The worms of doubt, the prick of honors, Or when I am rubbed the wrong way, Or the sound of iron on glass. I donít like the well-fed confidence, Itís better if the brakes break down, It annoys me that honor is forgotten, I hate when the informing is honored. When I see the broken wings, I donít feel pity, and hereís why: I donít like force or impotence, I pity only Christ on the cross. I donít like myself when Iím a coward, It annoys me when the innocents are hurt, I donít like when one creeps into my soul, Especially when one spits into it. I donít like all kinds of arenas, On them thereís nothing but risk and death. Let there be great changes to come, And I wonít like it even more!
© Nathan Mer. Translation, 1991