Again, here am I
In this torrid clime.
In my pocket
Half a stick of Juicy Fruit,
Sweet though dried-up.
A gust of sand
Spins up the railroad track:
It is the end, again.
I find a cigarette
But have no match.
Looking about
Everything shimmers.
The only thing wrong with death
Is that is holds no desire.
This poem has not been translated into any other language yet.
I would like to translate this poem
Brilliantly written. Liked this a lot.