False promises and declarations given by fake leaders,
But I tried to write a true tale of a nation’s death by terror;
In a dark corner all huddled in fear and tears,
Wanted to tell, of a faith that was packed with horror.
All day I listened about, abroad the devastated tales;
Shocked to see the bloody, blasted limbs at each wall like a flier;
Deadly blast rocked the sky, destruction of males and females;
Torn open by for vultures, in spite of blood and fire.
By the smoking land, where Rama played, I asked, why
should a man kills man, when his existence and world fails?
In cities, town and villages, all the papers read the fault of faiths;
For a man who runs all day, each leaf was a sign of life and breath,
Spreading the message of love I thought was dead as horror tales,
No clue, no key, no answer. I hear no echo, but a tale sad and wry.
This poem has not been translated into any other language yet.
I would like to translate this poem