A writer is congenitally unable to tell the truth and that is why we call what he writes fiction. - William Faulkner
I'M LONELY AND SAD
I'm lonely and sad, and in moments of bitterest pain
Have no one to look to, alas...
Desires!.. What use to desire without end, without gain,
While all the best years swiftly, fleetingly pass!
To love... Whom?.. If briefly, 'tis not worth the effort...
Vain longing, since love cannot last.
Look into your heart: joy and torment - all paltry, and there
Remains not a trace of the past.
The passions?.. Sweet ailment that reason will easily cure,
A cold word of logic arrest.
And life - what is life if you look round you coolly?-
An empty and trivial jest!..