The catastrophe of years rolled off his blistered back
Smoldering skin against a backdropp of black asphalt sky.
Fragments of dreams yelled 'STOP'
But the cool night would not end
And he could not repent, for his purpose was LIFE.
The heat wounds heal, leaving scarred roads not followed,
Some never to be found
But the purpose of the journey remains.
This poem has not been translated into any other language yet.
I would like to translate this poem