I sit and watch the people pass,
Going about their lives as if in a trance.
Nothing changes, everything’s the same.
I do suppose I will be game.
I don’t like it, it’s not right.
Everyone’s in a rush, going at the speed of light.
Speeding around London, everyone’s so selfish.
It’s all so dull; they look so snobbish.
Sitting on public transport, I watch again.
I see boredom, I see similarity, I see plain.
I see everything I don’t want to be.
This isn’t the life to make me happy.
I need to get out, I need to be free.
There’s a whole world I long to see.
Asia, Africa, the Americas, I want to see more.
It’s the traveller’s life I long for.
If it makes me happy, surely it’s all good.
To be honest, I think it would.
I need to go; I can hear the call,
Yet I still say “world, to me, enthral.”
This poem has not been translated into any other language yet.
I would like to translate this poem