Ten men huddled close to the fire,
the weather was cold and dire,
no-one was in sight for a mile,
they were lost in the jungle for a while.
As the last ambers of fire died out,
warmth could only last for a bout.
Their bones were beginning to limber,
each man had held a piece of timber.
None tried to revive the dying fire,
the conditions further became mire.
Why should his wood provide others’ heat,
he cares not if they turn to peat.
Slowly blood drained from their vein,
and bodies crumbled under the pain.
They all died clutching their pieces of wood,
their egos brought them no good.
Hate had covered their hearts with a shroud,
wrath was their ultimate sin,
they were not killed due to cold with out,
they were killed due to cold within.
This poem has not been translated into any other language yet.
I would like to translate this poem