How am I supposed to write under conditions like these?
Barreling motorcar roar through my alley, please.
Wake me, shake me from my world nocturne
Turn me, burn me; dump me in my urn.
Scatter me onto the earth of a continent never traveled,
Where barefoot folk can carry me and grind me into the gravel.
There will be no more roaring motorcars, no more pens and barrels.
No more off-key motherfuckers singing Christmas carols...
I have seen my world of life and strife, rapture, indifference and peril.
Your world will thank me when I am gone, and pray that I was sterile.
This poem has not been translated into any other language yet.I would like to translate this poem