We're numb to those scorned homes
Within this dome that condones
Their destruction.
They're strung at the brink of forlorn zones;
Writhing clones to diagnose
Without action.
We're occupied adorning pink floors, doors, and phones—
Preferring to be alone and shown
Wistful abstractions.
This poem has not been translated into any other language yet.
I would like to translate this poem