(The speaker here is a typical celebrity fan.)
'You speak to me in radio-waves,
in transmissions cracked asunder
by intermittent storms and thunder,
but I'm just one of your fashion-slaves
and I never hear you.
You come to me in limousines,
but, high above you, jet-planes roar,
just when you're speeding to my door,
looking like you do in magazines,
and I still don't hear you.
You open a door behind me
but lightning kills electricity
and you stand there in obscurity,
wondering how you'll ever find me,
and somehow I can feel you... here.'
This poem has not been translated into any other language yet.
I would like to translate this poem
Half idealized and object of a daydream this character enters a nice, fluent, nostalgic poem.