They hate poets for the primitive,
For the wisdom of a deep thought.
As soon as he spoke in rhyme
Of happy moments or of sorrows,
How dare he?

An upstart, a narcissist-self-lover,
An insolent braggart, a provocateur.
Better he had kept silent, the truth-chopper,
A mystifier
And a manipulator.

Who needs his observations?
Here everyone is a sage unto himself
Without limit.
Let him shut up, and that’s the end of the matter.