The old man running out of his
burning hut, set on fire
by napalm
in Vietnam..
Another old man was not as lucky,
bulldozed and buried alive
in his home
by the tanks of the occupiers.
A third, the father equivalent
of the Pieta, silently
wept as his son's coffin
came home, disgorged from
the plane's metal belly.
Countless others
were incinerated by
incendiary
firebombs dropped on
Tokyo's rice paper
homes.
This poem has not been translated into any other language yet.
I would like to translate this poem
A really powerful poem, a great write.