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