when the beetle is smashed
as the child leaves to another game of his
i get a stone and mark another violence
where no one is punished for beetles are just beetles
and children are merely children,
i always have a stone to mark an unforgettable story
wherever i go
it is always a story of a crime unsolved, a violence without cause,
another story of a crime which get laid and paid.
even within our family circle, i also have stones.
stones which i do not throw at anybody who committed the offense
a blunder an injustice against man committed by his fellowman
i have never thrown any stone at them
i only bury them in utter silence, as markers for me to remember
that somehow i too have committed this common mistake
of simply gazing
doing nothing and then somehow move on
either with a guilty conscience or this sense of helplessness
the biggest sin for all those other good men
who did nothing.
This poem has not been translated into any other language yet.
I would like to translate this poem