we're your friends.
we're not like the others.
when times are strange
and the green has died
withering under the howling sky.
alone.
we drive ourselves away from our own minds.
why?
why do you drive?
drive.
drive.
drive yourself to the edge.
the ground is empty, it swallows whole
the thoughts of your mind.
leap.
fall.
stumble and drag.
it's all the same.
and it's all to blame.
blame the road.
blame the fire.
blame yourself.
blame admired.
no one admires.
songs of funeral pyres
fill my head.
or if you choose.
drain my mind.
the thought of home
reveals unkind.
This poem has not been translated into any other language yet.
I would like to translate this poem