The nameless lives in nostalgia.
The faceless breathes anticipation.
Regimes deaden the soul.
And they don't know whom to blame anymore.
Youth bear vestiges like ink-swill upon roving cloth.
They could run screaming,
And we would never hear.
If that's the truth in knowing,
Then what is the lie in seeing?
This poem has not been translated into any other language yet.
I would like to translate this poem
A well articulated poem written with insight to capture the essence of the poem. Even me, am breathing anticipation right now. A lovely piece of poetry. Keep it up and thanks for sharing. Please read my poem MANDELA - THE IMMORTAL ICON.