Inept yet oft beseech thee I
The legions of console
As battles rage of nature one
The warrior ends up alone
Sticks, stones, slings and arrows
The hurt, the pain, the fall-out
The walking wounded and living dead
Why are we bitter why did we start this
Whether its war or friends its tragic
When our peace turns into mayhem
Had time eroded away our gentle
Smile and wish to reason
Alas people will be people
And differences shall occur
Though the tears are in our methods
And our communication transport
This poem has not been translated into any other language yet.
I would like to translate this poem