I don't write to sing worship to any god, as I'm tired of gods
I don't write for the kings that rule
As they are also afraid of what has to come
I don't write for my alike, the men, either
As they are a prey of their disappointments and hatred as much as I
I write for me, as I am tired of searching for immortality
And that makes the difference between me and the old
And new writers, who crave recognition from their peers
I don't write for lies either, these are to men like honey
That eludes the truth as much as a manure bed
I am a son of elderliness. I am frustrated and disappointed on this lie
Called life. And you that read me, enjoy the youth
Because the slow crackle of the pendulum has ashes in its throat
And the embalmed body does not laugh in the shadow of its tomb