He was his mother's son
Before he joined the army;
He who joins the army
Has no mother.
He has sold his will
To an iron god
That spits fire
And orphans children.
There are many of them
In the barracks;
Orphaned with parents,
Wills sold to iron gods.
Blood is on the streets;
Wine of rebellious arteries,
Freedom fighters
Are imprisoned in battles.
The iron gods
Rule our land;
They take our youth away,
While the umbilical cord remains
Buried under the palm tree,
Upon which are red nuts;
The red of fire in the iron god
Foretells the red of blood on our streets.
This poem has not been translated into any other language yet.
I would like to translate this poem