In that tattered-maggot-infect’d building;
building with ageing documents, machines not working,
I see those tough monkeys in uniform –
uniform of our national anthem,
which they have made to weapons of harassment,
frowning at us as if they know us not:
“What is your occupation? ’
‘You resist’d arrest? ’
‘You threaten’d the life of that man? ’
‘You’re a dangerous criminal? ’
Such are how they query us,
letting us not to utter any defence of our own,
before we find ourselves in a cell
where our already-tortured ribs are exposed to maggots.
This poem has not been translated into any other language yet.
I would like to translate this poem