We stood at the bus stop,
Under the sun which was above 32 degrees,
The hot wind blows,
When seek for the cold one.
The bus driver seems to have lost the track of time,
Or we have just came a little too early,
But the time was already eleven-twenty.
We were twenty minutes late.
The heat kept pressing our skins,
Where we stood
We couldn't have found refuge of shade.
We were under the sun,
Without any intention of basking,
Or the tan that came, unwanted.
Taxis pass with their horns on a high note,
We would've caught one,
Only if they would've take us where we want.
I tried not to imagine myself as passenger,
I wonder what others fought not to imagine.
One of the taxi stops,
A man with a newspaper stepped out,
He talked with a foreign language with a drive.
He found us battered by the summer's sun,
He told us that he had a dream,
A dream about us; strangers to him
He told us the cars he dream us driving,
Maybe he doesn't know that we don't harvest money,
Maybe he was a fortune-teller,
Only if I believe one,
Even my company share my believes,
The man tells us more about our future,
The future he had dreamed,
He prayed for us before he walk away,
We all looked at him,
Amazed, we watched him walk away;
I remember that neither of us had thanked him.
This poem has not been translated into any other language yet.
I would like to translate this poem