Raring to race down tracks of yesterday,
filling up with energy and heading down empty streets.
Left alone, racing into a crowded banquet set alongside
the road in a settlement of curiosity.
Taking turns, equally, hoping for the best, as turning,
I almost hit a forest of trees heading right for me.
Telling whispers hitting the gas pedal, forlornly
expecting not to stop.
This poem has not been translated into any other language yet.
I would like to translate this poem
not to stop, go on, good one. Please read my poems and say something.