Run and run, all the time you’re on the run.
Miles and miles up before you sleep.
Where is time for love or music?
Everything looks like a snail speed.
Run and run lest the bus should miss.
You are fast heading to hell.
Your immune system is in peril.
14.03.2000, Palakkad
This poem has not been translated into any other language yet.
I would like to translate this poem