who wouldn’t be bored when over the world
a million quiet stars shine
each in a different light
and everything rushes standing still . . .
and the earth stands and uncovers the ages
and everyone lived in this moment
of which no one second will remain
though people will be as they were . . .
who wouldn’t be bored on such a small stage
so shabbily made
where everyone was stricken by every ideal
the theatre paid with our lives . . .
what should i do with this moment?
i am captured by the truest boredom
what should i do about it, my lady,
should i write prose or poetry?
or should i write nothing and sit in the sun’s glare
reading an interesting romance
written by the flood in the grains of sand,
surely, for our enjoyment . . .
or better yet, I know a braver way
to fight against this cursed boredom
forget mankind, visit people
and have my cravat beautifully tied