As the news spreads the blues
like loci down lonely avenues
sad patients in the gambling hall
whistling till their pennies are small
Insurance men sell silk handshakes
to the dirty gravedigger's backaches
while the pencil pusher's stopwatch
butchers a quick game of hopscotch
fleece faces lay on granite floors
disheartened by dusty seesaws
feeling themselves slip away
falling off the walls of decay
The fortune teller's eye
cries whispers of sanguine
for sometimes the delusions
hurt less than reality's contusions
This poem has not been translated into any other language yet.
I would like to translate this poem