Juxtaposed to the
Pastel walls,
The Sun eschews
The futile terrain
With gaunt thorns
Stretched like arms,
Seeking alms.
From the smoke that
Flees the mouth and
Teeth gaps
To the elusive buses
Of machine-like snarls,
Everything came and
Went,
Stood stalwartly and
Then bent
To the direction of the
Dark that held
No doors.
This poem has not been translated into any other language yet.
I would like to translate this poem