Again as she always say,
'You people are not doing well.'
Toil some more, loosen the soil,
don't stop until the seeds sprouts.
But we're farming on a barren ground,
were useless weeds only thrive.
And though our task is to fertilize,
their sterile genes win at last.
And again she recited another line
from that sacred office memo.
'Tho shall not complain about thy work,
Because you have already made your oaths.'
So we have to live it day by day,
soldiers battling an uncertain cause.
And it is always us for them to blame,
it is expected so don't complain.
This poem has not been translated into any other language yet.
I would like to translate this poem