Away, away from the zealous crowd
nosing down on the need in front -
a shack to cozy up, closing eyes to
all and sundry but its own matchbox mind;
Ever lost in the clasp of the day's ordeal.
And trekking the way home with an
eye on the wallet, brow angled in a
permanent frown, mouth frozen in an
cynical, unkempt smile; I have seen
hands lock with no feel of recognition,
eyes meeting but words lost in the drift.
Is life a glorious moon to covet
or living a mechanized dingy to surf?
This poem has not been translated into any other language yet.
I would like to translate this poem