She will not come
Nor will she ever come,
And I will not kid myself
To wait longer;
I will pass on
Looking at the stale countryside
As I go,
And watch the trees turn purple
In the growing shade of night,
And find comfort in the warmth
Inside my jacket;
Things are different
On the road alone,
And maybe better
Because they're simpler;
I only have to manage for one,
Consult one, know one, fulfill one;
Without debate, I climb a fence in France
To seek a bed in a field of wheat;
And by myself
There's no, 'Oh, God, ' sigh;
Just sleep amid the night field life,
And maybe a quick peak at the stars.
This poem has not been translated into any other language yet.
I would like to translate this poem