Freeway freeway freeway.
Blocks of houses, buildings turn
all eyes. There had been a massacre.
Like cinema in real images.
Real bullets, real deaths.
Fear. And One. And One.
One waits for the word End
to flash across the screen. But
not a screen, not a word. And
One waits for nothing but the word End.
Bodies thrown out a window.
Blood already dry on the ground. Nightmare.
One will not wake up and One.
No camera to film. And One.
No director. But
One will wake up. And this.
You are far away and, and, and
batting your eyelashes.
Freeway freeway freeway. Dragging.
Stopping. One has to see that to be seen.
Drive on. Beware. Better you drive
on. Life has caught its breath.
Life. Don't mind. From his window
a guy filmed it all. Don't worry and,
tonight, in front of the television.
This poem has not been translated into any other language yet.I would like to translate this poem