Frontline warriors, as the media identifies them
Wending their way through the smell of death
White knuckle tight, in foxhole
Scrawling the prescriptions for beleaguer souls
Snubbing the mawkish taste of death
Making you believe, they don't feel a thing
Ho hum, everything will get well in the end
Whispering to God, pleading for little help
Mayday; new cases, new deaths, every new day
No one just by the side to vent out the rudderless thoughts but still and all
Please hold on, till heaven calls
This poem has not been translated into any other language yet.
I would like to translate this poem