The prolific poet is never trusted,
Like a beautiful woman—isn’t she too beautiful to give her beauty to one?
(Yes I know that beautiful women are truer than most
But we can’t help but see a beautiful woman as a ghost
With ghostly desires bursting from the brains of everyone.)
The prolific poet is never trusted.
Many beautiful poems coming out of you so quickly
Indicates a treasure that is not yours,
And you are, in fact, less than a man,
Not because you can’t do something—or skillfully and carefully, you can.
You are giving birth as passively as pain that roars.
All these poems! You are dreaming a desirable birth
To everyone’s everything. And so to everyone who is not everything you have no worth.
Just wait. One day your great poems will be taken out and dusted.
Until then, you are nothing. For everything is nothing—if it can’t be trusted.