Autopsicografia

13 translations of one poem, a beginning:

The poet is a faker
Who's so good at his act
He even fakes the pain
Of pain he feels in fact.

And a middle:

And those who read his cries
Feel in the paper tears
Not two aches that are his
But one that is not theirs.

And an end:

And so around its trackage
the little clockwork train
we call the heart, goes spinning
to entertain the brain.

http://www.disquiet.com/thirteen.html