Strange red rust world
Permeated with a scarlet haze
Red dust settled on the rooftops of shabby houses
Of trailers and outdated campers
Red dust filming the treeless, empty street
Oh, oh, moans the wind as it blows down the road.
Hot. It is stiflingly hot here. Hot air pressing against me.
I leave my little ship, its silver body bathed red in the sun
Its three fragile legs bent outward beneath the pressure.
This poem has not been translated into any other language yet.I would like to translate this poem