Found a more
Stranger Me
When treaded
Hand in hand
With the life.
The game of vice
of being alive
created strangers
in blood
a human instinct
I call it or an
Animal instinct
of survival
No one sees
No one touches
good or bad
feels
for looking back
I know, its death
Of future
For looking back
in rear view mirror
while dragging
ahead, May avert
Future exegiencies
Strangers, remained
Strangers still
Despite the hours of
Togetherness
And the Smoke
of these moments
died down
its silent death
This poem has not been translated into any other language yet.
I would like to translate this poem