War is mankinds oldest sport
Practised in the guise of freedom
As leaders coach, their players to die
For scores they call a victory
Fresh points are found body counts
Tallied in women and children
Though they claim the goal is peace
Pride and murder is their trophy
Oh what a wonderful game
This bloodsport man so joyfully plays
And bids his kin to cruel tradition
In Deaths Laurels on his brothers grave
This poem has not been translated into any other language yet.
I would like to translate this poem