A tongue of dust, a mouth of clay
with patches of goodness
happy with mundane things
the soul still pines in sorrow and agony
and as the fullness of time sinks abroad
the sun shines with harsh realities
opinion talks tough of ill-fortunes
where a spot defiles a preacher
minted furnace burps, and broaden
the mountains flee from their mounds
into vallies of abyssmality
tall trees, shrubs, and little plants too.
This poem has not been translated into any other language yet.
I would like to translate this poem
Dooms day shall be a time when no man can survive it. You have touched the tip of the iceberg but the bottom still remains. Pray that we never see the bottom. Very much appreciative of your deep thoughts.