The pasteurs green,
a tillers bread;
have long become barren.
The mountains white,
a delight to eyes;
have been tinted crimson.
The waters calm,
a peace to the soul;
are now turbulent.
The air pure,
life of the valley;
stinks now - of Death.
The paradise on earth,
has been turned into,
a graveyard of bliss.
This poem has not been translated into any other language yet.
I would like to translate this poem
bliss isn't the word...think of some other word...is there really any bliss in the graveyard of kashmir, the kind of bliss one normally associates with death? how about 'fright? ' 'for terror? ' think...