All my life to pretend this world of theirs is mine <br />And to know such pretending is disgraceful. <br />But what can I do? Suppose I suddenly screamed <br />And started to prophesy. No one would hear me. <br />Their screens and microphones are not for that. <br />Others like me wander the streets <br />And talk to themselves. Sleep on benches in parks, <br />Or on pavements in alleys. For there aren't enough prisons <br />To lock up all the poor. I smile and keep quiet. <br />They won't get me now. <br />To feast with the chosen—that I do well. <br /> <br /> <br />Translated by Robert Hass<br /><br />Czeslaw Milosz<br /><br />http://www.poemhunter.com/poem/not-mine/
