Written In Fever And Blood

I stare at the text until my head aches, but
the biggest pain is in my heart, heartache
is not recognized as a valid complaint –
while heartache is my problem, I can’t get
any help; struggling on, lagging far behind

I’ve been given a list of rules entailing that
I study my translation to make it faithful to
source text, the result is noises became
monsters, I have to isolate myself with the
text until my work is done, I’m running

down the passage, running form the pain, the
hurt of the documents, the accusation – cannot
concentrate, my mind fluctuates moving in and
out of existence, when I tell anyone, they say
it is impossible to suffer this way

Once everybody has consensus that my problem
does not exist, I can’t bring it to anyone’s attention
I’m giving up on life, I gave up a long time ago to
try to explain how I feel – the feedback is – it is
impossible, no-one can feel like that

so I keep quiet and carry on as best I can, covering
up the fact that I’m feverish and tired day, escaping
briefly by writing a few lines of poetry, then sitting in
my chair until I can run down the passage, sing on
the stairway, inferior and stupid because

my secret suffering is not understood – why should I
try to communicate with strangers - fathom meaning
in what they say, when ALL who know me cannot
begin to understand my emotions and experience
the reason I suffer when I try to edit two

boring texts – the original in the source language and
my bleak translation, written in fever and blood…