Everything is manicured.
Perfect to the spot.
People look at you
Inquisitively as they pass,
As if you aren`t meant
To be here.
The royalty of dynasty of fearful years,
Of no interference.
The middle class invent
A prejudice of their own,
And consciences left to burn.
This poem has not been translated into any other language yet.
I would like to translate this poem