In corners of the world that ends
alone stands the one,
ballast of the azure, all just there,
no one in sight, asking to go.
Atlas is standing there day and night,
with none to see and none to hold;
all he can hold is the eternal sky.
Sometimes doesn't Atlas merge with me?
Wasn't I the one standing and shivering
until all the weight stops?
The world may know him as Atlas,
the great Titan who conquered the heavens
and stood eternal.
But I see him all brazen,
a tired man,
a tired nobody,
left to withhold
the entirety of the cosmos.
And sometimes
I wish it wasn't me who was Atlas.
I just wish for Atlas to be him,
but in the end,
he is me.