Car like a comet, breaking all the lights, we speed
towards waiting rooms and vending machines.
The anaesthetic takes time to empty your head
so it becomes a stadium and the game postponed.
Through a window, dead white eyes are staring
upon the sterilised floors, as you lift high
into orbits where the stars have ceased to war:
The Lake Isle of Innisfree, The Forest Moon of Endor.
Then the doctor makes her first incision
with an amphetamine glint in her eye.
This poem has not been translated into any other language yet.
I would like to translate this poem