he always enjoys it the most
looking down to the spinning world underneath his feet
like two strangers parted by the Mississippi -
he sure hears their wonders
even when surrounded this lonesome space of clamors
through the glass windows he sees
the wild forest, the crafted foundtains
those flow and those remain their poses in silence
yet all transfixed into his meandering electric tunnel
dragging shadows of their immaterial souls
he likes to put on two sweaters all at once
two sweaters of the same color and style
to hold on to all his visions since a child;
when his engine howls
i saw a distant Light reflected in his iris...
Where are you?
'five-oh-eight five-three-oh-two-oh-oh-eight is not available
at the tone please leave your message'
true; when clouds froze, the signal bars were gone
now he turns to another page as Childe Harold runs
but now remains the exhausion
the exhausion of this airless journey of progression
when he stands up and slows down the screw propeller
he feels the gravity has dried out the air
so he smiles and opens his eyes.
then a second of peace
followed by an eternal leisure collision.
This poem has not been translated into any other language yet.
I would like to translate this poem