A poem by Alfred Lichtenstein

Paul said:

Ah, but who wouldn't want to drive a car forever -
We burrow our way through high-stemmed woods,
We pass by spaces that seem endless.
We pass through the wind and attack the towns, which speed up.
But the odors of the sluggish cities are hateful to us -
Ah, we are flying! Always alongside death...
How we despise and scorn him who sits on our lives!
Who lays out graves for us and makes all streets crooked - ha, we
laugh at him,
and the roads, overcome, die with us -
Thus we shall auto our way through the whole world...
Until, on some clear evening
We find a violent ending against a sturdy tree.

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