The remaining sixteen books

I have only sixteen books;
only these have remained,
I used to have hundreds with a bookshelf.
When I looked at them,
I felt joy,
Ooh, the wretched human self-esteem.
Losing them was a fruit of moving,
When you leave a house,
You may lose things and hands.
But tomorrow..,
Those last sixteen will be buried in a bin.
I remember how I loved to read all day;
around my bed, there were always many open books;
they lay scattered on the floor like orphaned islands.
I loved second-hand bookstores.
When I lived in St. Albans,
I usually visited the local mafxO bookstore,
It was full of beauty.
What a terrible conceit of mine that was.
I just want some clothes and a laptop.
I'll try to lose everything else,
It seems the only way to escape
from this rapacious animal
that is our civilization.
And if I fail,
I may have to get rid of my last thing,
anyway.