When Dengue makes dents and stings with verve,
do the Talibans to fire have nerve?
The stinking garbage will grill the boys
and to flee from its grip, give no choice.
Polluted atmosphere
isn't strange in this sphere.
The wild outfits may make a raid
and carry home some virus beside.
This poem has not been translated into any other language yet.
I would like to translate this poem