Like some monument to comfort
you shirk duty
you
stroll the reckless streets
on some shapely saunter through
the pages of a mystery novel
you
window shop for marvels
and sensations
picking and choosing
that which renews your sense
of having nothing
but a chiseled face
and a pedestal of foolhardy freedom
to stand upon.
This poem has not been translated into any other language yet.
I would like to translate this poem