There is no glory
in dying before your time
or having your remains
scattered across some muddy field.
There is no glory
in a war of any sorts.
We may take issues with another
with fingers pointed in scorn,
but there is no glory
when death becomes involved
and bodies lie scattered
on some remote muddy field.
There is no glory
in the multiples of death
during any kind of war.
It is the innocent
that end up sleeping
in death’s dark lonely bed.
This poem has not been translated into any other language yet.
I would like to translate this poem