the long road of sorrow is never vacant
with truckloads of grief
beside it a desert of disappointments
sometimes there are no trucks during the hottest
part of the days of the past
but what fills up the road is the coldest air coming
from the mountains of regrets
and where is the happy part of this landscape
ah, there is a migrant bird, small and with frail wings
trying to cross the sahara desert alone
imagining that somewhere in this map is the
south pacific
full of majestic islands and dancing natives
and monkeys and coconuts.....
This poem has not been translated into any other language yet.
I would like to translate this poem