These are the demarcation lines of hate;
the crude black daubs of a battle plan.
The unspoken rules of some other's fate;
silently inscribed by an unseen hand.
And whom of men, do we suppose, lands the fatal blow?
Among the innumerable rain of fists immune
to the fire below.
Forged, wrenched, wrought - an old and heinous plan begins:
unleashes the thousand shards of violent delight,
for all those who come willingly to sow and fight,
while high above the bloody heaven,
a sardonic watching master grins.
This poem has not been translated into any other language yet.
I would like to translate this poem