Green, grey, multicoloured automobile
When it rains, it showers on the supposed roofed seats
Floating on water, the wind shield wiper has gone pre history
Crying out to be flung, tilted revolting old 504 automobile
Hotwire ride, giver of the family morning exercise
Did the engine airborne poor witches overnight
Or has the witches dead beaten its efficiency
Always failing break, Dads’ desert warrior and pit combatant
Tires worn, rearview mirror and headlights travelled to exile,
‘Are you blind, get out! ’ voices are blown instead of horns
Only if the roads could speak
At the peak of disappointment spiteful is to the throttle cable.
On motion the gust of wind howls and tears
Gushing out dust and muddy sands,
Exhaust attempts hunting the flying birds
Be not frightened by the shrill sound of Dads’ old 504 automobile.
This poem has not been translated into any other language yet.
I would like to translate this poem