If i don't work i do not exist
If i don't serve for production i am dead even being alive
Isn't this way you reason about it ?
There is still life in the yellowish pictures

I see, I speak, I hear, I think
I am flesh and blood, pulsating blood
I also have sentiments even in oldness

The pain of waiting and trying to be usefull
and nobody pays attention
I feel like a yellowish picture

I don't want feeling of pity for me
I don't need this kind of charity
Lined hands, tremulous, prophetic hands
disturb and seem to suffer from a pest without a cure

Oldness is a child that returns and worries
Friends go away, curtain comes down
The play is out of sight
Forgotten sitting in the room corner
Asleep scenery of a far off life
Remembrance of mine that doesn't interest nobody
My greatest mistake was to believe that my garden wouldn't come