we have lived too long,
too well by murder and blindness!
what else can you call it?
when the hand chops off the foot,
and paints the face of an enemy...
when the fingers
allow the toes to starve...
and trees and mountains
stand in line weeping,
waiting to view the casket!
This poem has not been translated into any other language yet.
I would like to translate this poem
A great poem, like it. And in the casket will be our guilt.