A stone rocket sits on Princes St,
it hasn't moved for years.
It's fuel used up long ago,
in the writing of the great man,
who sits beneath it.
Taking us all on a journey,
fixed both in history and in the work
of the readers and writers who followed.
It has reached its destination.
Imagination,
set in stone,
for all to see.
This poem has not been translated into any other language yet.
I would like to translate this poem