In pinkish tones of boiling
Rolls the desert air.
From where fiery galah
Sun-procreated are;
And gear, rusty-fair.
Neon-lit, that stair-climbed is
City's tidal mark.
Higher for what adjusts
In each year's greeds and lusts
This hour's wrathful dark.
feb.8 '83
This poem has not been translated into any other language yet.
I would like to translate this poem