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I hate the fatal end with any reason,
Life never makes me tired, faint or blue.
I count to be unlucky any season
When I sing not my merry songs to you.
I loathe persons cynical and cold,
Use caution when someone shows too much glee.
I hate it when a stranger is so bold,
That reads my letters peeping over me.
It vexes me when things are half-completed,
Or when for others’ acts I feel some shame.
To shoot in the foe’s back is mean and bitter,
To shoot the foe point-blank is just the same.
It’s strange to me when people for gossips care,
Or with no reason kick up a big fuss.
I hate it when I’m stroked against the hair,
Or when I hear how iron crushes glass.
To spend the time in vanity is rotten,
I’d rather choose to rush on with no brakes.
It’s a disgrace that honor is forgotten,
And seers end their livings at the stakes.
Broken wings make upon me a faint impression,
And call me not too obdurate and hard:
I hate them both, depression and aggression;
But Jesus’ crucifixion breaks my heart.
I hate myself when I become so cold,
That I can watch how innocents are hit.
I hate it when they climb into my soul,
And hate it when they try to sully it.
I hate it when true arts are turned to vending,
When Mother Nature’s riches dissipate.
And though there great changes are impending,
I’ll never fall in love with what I hate!
1969.
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