No knight in shining armor on a white-steed
But rather an aging farmer on an old plow-horse;
No guardian angel looking over your shoulder
But rather the Grim Reaper with his scythe;
No communication with follow-up & follow-through
But rather smoke-signals blown away by the wind;
No Lady Justice with The Sword of Justice
But rather she's carrying a rusty scabbard now;
No ocean water to wash across my face & brow
But rather hypodermic needles to stick into my skin;
No road to success, no road to recovery
But rather all there is, is a maze - can't unwind;
No clean air to breathe, unbreathable at best
But rather pollution wearing a death face mask;
No hope on the horizon, values lay dying
But rather vanished signs to which upon the vulture sits.
No longer looking for something good to find
But can no longer conquer - only wait to die.
'2008'
This poem has not been translated into any other language yet.
I would like to translate this poem