I’m hurtling through spring countryside,
Mirror crammed with van,
Nose at tail.
“FAST! ” I see it shout.
Pale fields rise up on either side,
Tremble, sigh,
Sink away
As we tear through.
Now a sway of trees,
Green-laced,
Fingers reaching out.
“Wait for us! ” they cry.
Van roars by
And mirror fills with fingers,
Frail, bereft, beseeching.
“STOP! ” I see them wail,
“Oh, stop your race, won’t you? ”
But I have deadlines too.
This poem has not been translated into any other language yet.
I would like to translate this poem
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