the majestic piece of art
laid down on the cool autumn grass.
covered by autumn leaves, waiting
for a miracle of whatever god may exist
in an attempt to remain immortal,
as the mortals had aimed it to be,
the machine was born again
like a phoenix coming back from ashes.
it scanned its red and orange surroundings
not being able to appreciate the humid landscape
of dead flowers and naked trees,
for the machine could not feel.
Or could it?
Did it feel how its battered fuselage
finally broke down in violence,
or the coldness of all the winters
in which it remained still?
did it cry when its creator broke down,
right in front of it?
did its legs hurt
after miles and miles of running
This poem has not been translated into any other language yet.I would like to translate this poem