Speeding down cement streams,
His eye's close and he dreams......
....Finds himself in a white room,
that's as bare as a tree in winter.
His legs are shackled,
From reams of pages from his
green chilhood journals.
Behind him a bird appears,
it moves in slow sad circles.
Pausing to release a single
salty tear.
His shackles turn into piles of
white sand.
At that moment he wakes,
As his car flies for the first time,
Before plunging down,
into the open mouthed hungry sea.
This poem has not been translated into any other language yet.
I would like to translate this poem
Nothing worse than falling asleep at the wheel of life Vincent. I really enjoyed this poem. 10 from High cliffs, high risks, high speed Tai