A classic rock band, playing on the radio set at low volume, complemented the din roar of a truck at a distance
The wind hitting my face made me shiver
And as I drove in the middle of the night, on the highway,
I smelt smoke.
And when I looked above, I saw ash grey clouds,
And I smelt smoke.
And then it occurred to me, and I just knew,
If God's masterpiece wasn't allowed to be perfect,
How could mine be allowed such a distinction?
This poem has not been translated into any other language yet.
I would like to translate this poem