They are smaller than a weapon,
Igniting the past with someone’s gun;
Real heavens are falling faster
Than the speed of light.
The weather in the Hereafter was friendly,
As results were far we collected
A result too near the mark,
People have pupils under their control.
Small years are a continuing reminder,
How many questions refer to me?
They answer in some way unpleasant,
Yet the words are a single reflection.
This poem has not been translated into any other language yet.
I would like to translate this poem