Well, I could have looked at
my wrist
my mobile
Chose to stare toward heavens
sun, torturing my iris
soaking through'
the steel structure
holding it's unkempt
Roman-Numeral
facade
Distinguishing
between
venerable
rusted arms
and the
dust-grime-dirt
that
would need
only
face cleanser
on a sponge
[.]
This poem has not been translated into any other language yet.
I would like to translate this poem