On my own runway
I stood and
This runway is
Made by you.
Neither you can see me
Nor my runway can
Shown to you.
I am on my runway
And you can not say
How it is made
Phalt or concrete
Or in grass or gravel
or dirt or salt.
This is my runway
That you can not denied
As I am passing through it
And going to melt.
This poem has not been translated into any other language yet.
I would like to translate this poem