lurching houses,
leaning into the street,
dragged down,
by the emotional air.
late summer firestorm eyes,
burning multicoloured light,
Black shabby birds,
taunt from there electic death rope,
Each street cloned,
Each thought postponed,
untill the medication flows,
and emotions circle and drown.
Takeway cafe expels greasy haze,
which lingers around,
rotting the air, and staining clothes.
Somewhere little children,
sleep with delicate dancing eyes,
Do not grow old,
Do not fully open your eyes,
Too many broken faces,
lost in open spaces,
Wondering and wandering,
when the bomb will be delivered,
and all of history can turn to ash together.
This poem has not been translated into any other language yet.
I would like to translate this poem
You're an image maestro, Vincent. Simple as. Regards, Gina.