The blaring, deafening diesel
Horn warned its imminent approach
To the major intersection
Of town with four cacophonies:
Each longer than the preceding
One as its screeching wheels clamored
Across the unevenly seamed
Cold tracks causing each set of wheels
To rhythmically sound their unique
Click-clack beat as the weathered cars
Swayed side to side in a seeming
Endless queue of commodities.
Far off in the distance is heard
The faint four as it rolled westward.
This poem has not been translated into any other language yet.
I would like to translate this poem