Now, on a gloomy autumn morning,
Caught me the misanthropy.
I was sitting, knitting,
Weaving thoughts into thinking
On a roadside I called bench,
Aside the surrounding chatting French.
Despite the chatty clouds’ roaring,
It was a silent, empty morning
That maybe no telescopes could see,
In a senseless African embassy.
All those understood, but foreign words,
Created against mine a thousand worlds:
How far I got from them since my birth,
How they held me the least, little worth.
Human sounds, but like aliens laughing;
Gallantly numbing and embarrassing,
Doubting my own galaxy’s notions,
Killing all, if I ever had emotions.
Wordmade white holes filled me with filthy void,
Unable to enter nor to avoid,
Sending me into a senseless sorrow,
Lowering me lower and more low in my thought.
I got be hardly stressed,
Why these mysterious worlds pressed
On me so cruelly the wrong,
Making me depressed a life time along.
Even if I should have cried for resort,
I was still sitting sine a sort,
In my mind, that’s not a garden of Eden,
Or just I was, by myself, mistaken.
If not physically, I did find a way,
How to be further away,
From the mass of noisy folly,
Sitting on the hidden road of misanthropy.