In the evening, the still pale
green landscape bathing in light,
I sit inside before the laptop, translating
a pretentious poem about life and art
by a young Aldous Huxley, full
of the the 'wisdom' of a well-educated,
well-read and little-lived youth,
instead of being outside,
in the light, living,
and why?
My act of translation
doesn't matter; his poem,
when it was still being read,
didn't matter - second-rate
words from a first class talent
who would write only one immortal work
(and that not his best),
so why bother?
It's warm outside, and light
would drive out the shadows
from the mind, sooth
the vengeful conscience,
but this pointless act,
this time wasted,
gives me a shard of joy,
like a ray of sun,
yet earned,
more lasting.
02.06.2021
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