All I distinct is a vile panorama
Behind slabs, then locked for virtuous
And that hope to have been thwarted
Yet I grow grey hair with each daybreak
Surviving in this imaginary hamlet.
Beneath the iron forged panel
I recognize the scriber and a tabloid
To reach for these is the only craving
As I forecast all mine thoughts, scribed
In black and white. Unfolding the lit*
The lit that lies underneath the wits
To rebut this rinsed civilization that
Replete me behind slabs and the
So called globalization whom deplete
My ethics, slayers of my decency.
This poem has not been translated into any other language yet.I would like to translate this poem