In the stairwell shuffle feet
Breathing in that liquid heat
Seeking some abstact relief
From the destitute concrete
My caravan body burns beneath
A sacreligious god of grief
In the form of bare-bulbed light
On a world of grinding teeth
A the sun goes down t'ward night
Flocks of buzzards take their flight
Circling in the pipen sky
Scavanging for their birth right
With no oasis floating by
On we push, the birds and I
Each holding to his firm belief
Land like this makes creatures die
This poem has not been translated into any other language yet.
I would like to translate this poem
Hot write, Matt... well composed and neatly worded! Brian