Sidewalks.
They scraped your knees.
On a brakeless red bike
in a wet whirlwind.
You, being of leaves
with no direction,
you fell...
On cracked concrete
where you cried and bled,
lying still.
You were told never to play.
How you cried and bled.
On the stroke of a match,
you burn as a child long ago;
Your first band-aid,
and how you fell again.
This poem has not been translated into any other language yet.
I would like to translate this poem