All that I have written
Is like the last flicker of a dying lamp.
I have illumined existence for a while,
Made a little dent in the solid darkness all around,
Distributed my faint smiles as a dying man.
There is that endless, unknown darkness again
All around me.
On all sides,
There is a swarm of moths.
The candle is playing with them,
But still it is quite alone in itself.
No one knows,
What keeps it burning.
Words are meaningless here.
They are incapable of fighting with darkness.
Still, the burning of the candle for a while
Was not purposeless,
Although, all that I have written is gone
Like the last flicker of a dying lamp.