You are walking down the street.
Past business-men and women with briefcases.
Past shiny new buildings and posh cars.
You turn a corner.
Then rusty several-year-old cars.
Then business-men and women in hoddies and jeans.
Staggering to indelicately avoid dodgy stains.
And questionable puddles on the pavement.
You expect to hear sirens.
And glass crunching underfoot.
You expect to be knocked into.
And check your pockets seconds later.
For your vanishing wallet.
You expect in a place like this to be stabbed.
In the back, mugged and hoarse
Your body left to mould on the blackened streets.
You expect death and brace yourself.
But you don’t expect to see him.
Even on these shady roads.
This poem has not been translated into any other language yet.
I would like to translate this poem