I saw a lapel on his begrimed shirt,
With all the decent colours, indication
That he wanted to scrutinize me when I watched.
Hearts are made for electrical cities,
With every body, with every one in command,
And underneath is a lagoon of sewage and bodies.
Who is that ‘man’ or should I say ‘ghost’?
That man needs affection, not a wrong stare and glare,
He is not my body or coat, he is conspirator and host.
I saw label on his top-shirt, I recall,
And I never want to see him again.
This poem has not been translated into any other language yet.
I would like to translate this poem