Like their best work, a back road built so long ago
Was hiding something decaying as the pavement,
Overgrown in some places with moss and green
Like the murders of the district and radio.
Grown to the criminals was a mainland unseen,
Dragging along with it a slain corpse that deceased
On the events of the war,
A rigorous battle with biting of raw hands,
And barreling south from the pines
And snobs, the real pretending objects
That defeated the objective.
This poem has not been translated into any other language yet.I would like to translate this poem