London calling
it's smokers lungs bleating
in sharp consonants, lulling vowels
a mother's voice calling to her bosom
a pillow
in the City of Dreams
The wordless fields, speechless roads
gape and swallow like a hungry fish
The empty air echoes, taunts
and jeers
at night the small stone walls turn into brick
and pavements grow from grass
and orange faces peer red-eyed
through the dark
the twigs crack underfoot
brittle fingers like the lies
that keep me
and night time calls again
This poem has not been translated into any other language yet.
I would like to translate this poem