Everything obeyed our laws and
we just went on self-improving
till a window gave us pause and
there the outside world was, moving.
Five apartment blocks swept by,
the trees and ironwork and headstones
of the next town's cemetery.
Auto lots. Golf courses. Rest homes.
Blue-green fields and perishable vistas
wars had underscored in red
were sweeping past,
with cloudscapes, just
as if the living room were dead.
Which way to look? Nonnegative?
Nonplussed? (Unkilled? Unkissed?)
Look out, you said; the sight's on us:
If we don't move, we can't be missed.
This poem has not been translated into any other language yet.I would like to translate this poem