Schizoid robots are hiding in mops
With long greasy hairstrands that sway and mock
Knotty eyes focused on yellowed wall clocks
As they slide-dance it, across the floor
Their bucket talk scatters the vagrant leaves
Hides muddy footprints, like sleight-of-hand thieves
Their water froths out on the ground like a sieve
When floor water sings, hear how it must roar..
This poem has not been translated into any other language yet.
I would like to translate this poem