The machinism
Of this colossal structure:
A manifesto of shameful distress
A wallowing, a slow devouring.
This artillery of redundancy
As we sprint through
The fire like mad horses.
No hands are propped this time
Only a slow demise
Round and round -
A sluggish mania;
The hysteria tolls in a lunacy
Of people silently seated
Upon cold metal
Waiting for their turn
To be at the peak
And cringing at the very sight
Of the rancid floor
As they loom towards it.
This poem has not been translated into any other language yet.
I would like to translate this poem