A train of time,
Ticking its track,
Chooing its chase,
Without looking back.
Steaming through fields,
Mists of blurred green,
Powering away
Through the wind that has been.
Mechanical motion,
Metallic core,
A brute of a migrant
That has no before.
This poem has not been translated into any other language yet.
I would like to translate this poem
Tight. Crisp. Unique perspective.