The road is a spittoon.
Sure it is. I have no intent,
To be content,
With the art,
Of my political caste.
I don't know why,
Do drivers,
Open doors in mid flight,
Bend down,
Spit fire in a split second,
A jet of tobacco induced,
Shoot.
Sharper than tequila,
Red over wine,
Streaking the tar,
Like dogs with one raised leg.
Hardik Mahesh Vaidya.
This poem has not been translated into any other language yet.
I would like to translate this poem