In San Francisco's financial district
Downtown, there is an alley, Burritt Street,
Jutting out where Bush Street roofs the Stockton
Tunnel, dark site of fictional deceit
As revealed by a small plaque on the wall,
Commemorating what never happened;
Sunlit daytime's familiar routine
All but obscures our cold blackness of night,
The nagging stain of treacherous murder.
This poem has not been translated into any other language yet.
I would like to translate this poem