Way to go 
up from here.
Living fast, 
bleeding fear.
Nothing set, 
state of flux.
Fragmented 
bits of luck.
Park the car
and walk.
Sunday gloom, 
idle talk.
Gray way
October blows, 
windy 
as you know.
In the news 
nothing good.
Close the door, 
if you would.                
This poem has not been translated into any other language yet.
I would like to translate this poem
 
                    