The bleak, rusting
Bars
The patrons,
The heartless whir
In a dispute with
The soulless.
It was like seeing
Frail, tacit fires
Instigate an
Incineration in a
Moist marsh -
Pointless, like
The bars that siphon
Sobriety from the
Populace -
And the populace permits this
Madness.
This poem has not been translated into any other language yet.
I would like to translate this poem