Does it matter which way you go?
When you don't know anywhere
And just roving everywhere without
a purpose of anywhere to go
You fly on the borrowed wings
Talk in a loaned tongue you can't give back
Take no bath in your dreadlocks
Walk naked with shreads of raiment
In your hands
The city is a maze
Quite suitable for your trade
And soliloquy your companion
You laugh at your weeping
In a world too distinct from the districts
Of the city.
Here the dustbin is your kitchen
Brimming with flies and the dark puddles
On the streets
Your resplendent springs to quench your searing thirst
No street is long
Neither is anyone too short
For a rising aimless walk
That's how to feel
When the mind travels leaving you behind.
This poem has not been translated into any other language yet.
I would like to translate this poem