I passed on the street a real-life zombie,
A blank stare left his periscopic hood,
Withering beneath his Abercrombie,
The discarded needle, curdling his blood.
A pitiful life, a forgotten man?
Frequenting alleys to escape the glare,
Is he no longer a part of His plan?
I pressed on homeward, how much did I care?
This poem has not been translated into any other language yet.
I would like to translate this poem