Collapased, on the dirt
The filth of industry
Creeps over my surface
Already stained red by the Suns of Man
My support beams crack, ringing out in need
Alas, the other machines churn away
I must restart, but my tank has run dry
What a way to end
Serving for years
only to end up in The Scrap Heap
only to know I'll be replaced by a newer model
only to arrive at the same cruel destination
For we shall never become the opperators
snidley smirking and exchanging parchment
waiting for us to collapse
in the dirt
the filth of industry
This poem has not been translated into any other language yet.
I would like to translate this poem