The radiator’s radiant glow
plays the role of the sun
in the smoke-filled room.
The neon light stick lies
perpendicular to it.
The wooden floor beneath
is our quicksand foundation;
It donates our physicalities
to its hidden death house
six feet under its trap.
While “War Pigs” is played
to our minds of impairment,
the wall projects our lives
as but shallow slaves;
Slaves to indecisiveness!
This poem has not been translated into any other language yet.
I would like to translate this poem
Simply a very good poem, Micheal.