Sun cooked handles held by the arms of time:
Plastic cracks, metal warps, who pays a thought; mind
The children with future dreams set afar,
Traveling the lands with gas in their cars
And wallets with papers of past kings.
I live in a place where you die if you dream.
I see the buildings, I see the people,
Nothing seems to matter but the person
And I know him, his name is simple John.
He's dumb, thinks he's smart and gets along.
Here I am sitting in piles of sand
Rubbing dirt into my sun beaten hands
And I hear a melody crying soft,
So I look around for the one that I love
But see only both the moon and the sun.
They kiss and say it is too bad for me.
This poem has not been translated into any other language yet.
I would like to translate this poem