There ain't no sunshine here,
just amenities, that boiler heat.
When your windows open to Methanol scents,
you just know you're in for it, something bad.
Away from the green of life,
my friend in bed, things aren't right.
There ain't no cosy hearth or bed,
as chills flow through grilled ducts;
conditioned to keep ye numb, drips're in;
and they push in needles left and right.
Miles away, see your goddess and a love,
loss of blood and Dengue blues, a pal in pain.
Day again and the relaxed tone, the hungry one;
he's back, close shave? Yeah, close enough!
The worries fade with a taxi ride,
home again, sea breeze and the womb.
Still, there ain't nothing here ye know:
Gold, fame? Then this alien, barren land.
This poem has not been translated into any other language yet.
I would like to translate this poem