Hues of colors paint the steel frame,
Glass reflects life's remains,
The glow, the shine of early morning light,
Solemn and stationary, placed upon men's might,
Water turning violently bellow chasing into itself,
The bridge stretched above like a belt,
Wind that blew to fill sailors sails,
Breaks and howls through metal shells,
Inside the city's remains are a thousand soul's of man,
Painting concrete ground like a speckled sand.
A monument, a marker,
A grave or a writers tome,
Is a city many?
Or is it alone?
This poem has not been translated into any other language yet.
I would like to translate this poem