Lord, I loved strawberry jam
and the dark sweetness of a woman's body.
I also loved iced vodka, herring in olive oil,
and the scents of cinnamon and cloves.

What kind of prophet, then, could I become?
Why should the spirit visit such a man?
There were many others far more worthy in line before me.
Who could trust me? They saw...

How I emptied the glasses, how I threw myself upon food,
and how greedily I watched the waitress's neck.
I am full of flaws, and I know it.

I long for greatness wherever it may be found,
and yet, in a moment of insight,
I understood what remains for insignificant people
like me:

The feasts of fleeting hopes,
the assembly of the arrogant,
the championship of the hunchbacks: literature.