A growing portion of my soul
Yearns to find that we are all stick figures
Slowly scrawled through the fog on the window
Our human failings and fears reduced
To the simplistic innocence
We all heard whispers of
Whisking though elementary bus windows,
As we barreled on through
The frosty dawn's fog.
This poem has not been translated into any other language yet.
I would like to translate this poem