Shells on the sand from the live sea,
shells of automobiles rusting.
The wind starts to cry,
howling inside the doors which greet dishonest lives.
Shells of houses in the Mayan heights;
clues for codes which could give honour back to our
hollow shells and rusted cars.
This poem has not been translated into any other language yet.
I would like to translate this poem
I like'back to our hollow shells'