A blind and deaf bullet buried in the field
Dozing through decades of blood and bones
Then one morning
In a bustling future
As the children return to the field
Returning to goof around and chase each other
The blind and deaf bullet will be dug up
Will be dug up and awaken
In the middle of this happiness
As the children shriek and crow
The bullet will wake up
Wake up and open its eyes
Open its eyes and explode
Explode and the children will die
Die with their bodies and faces shattered
There, that’s the toy left over by your parents
O my children
What more can I say
What can say to my children, to my children
To a pitiful future.
This poem has not been translated into any other language yet.
I would like to translate this poem
This is, indeed a savage poem and uses the language to maximum effect. There is a humanisaation of the innate (the mine) which suggests a dehumanisation of us all. I think that the final stanza has let this otherwise, powerful piece of writing, down. It smacks of mawkishness and though I may disagree with the pessimistic ending it could, assuming the philosophy of the writer, be made to have a greater impact. Children are used too much in all aspects of life to tug the heart-string, I wonder would a more outraged ending not be more appropriate.