Our street corner is house of a lady,
She always rambles before sunset.
Her daughter walks in the afternoon,
The whole family are addicted by walking.
Her husband rambled to war,
a bullet crossed his body,
for the purpose of walking,
And sent him to die.
People returned his corse by walking to burial.
So the lady walks to bank,
employees walks to work,
he gives her martyrs salary.
She returns to pay back the debts of walking.
All the walks are beautiful.
Even the walk of bullet,
just war doesn't fit with walking.
the man who addicted to walking,
He should have flee from the war!
This poem has not been translated into any other language yet.
I would like to translate this poem
I like to walk! ! Great poem! !