We were too late born to escape from war,
was forced to go,
have caused with great manmade bolts of thunder
the slain; do know
the soulless agony that comes from killing,
saw phosphor glow
as it burns red with a projectile strike;
the destruction, killing, we did not like.
[Reference: 'The Too-Late Born' by Archibald MacLeish.]
This poem has not been translated into any other language yet.
I would like to translate this poem