the babies, their skin
party balloon thin
the babies, dusted
with concrete and death
at these throats
the torn and jagged metal
hurled from nonchalant
sky- ripping jets
while he who sits alone in
cold and white alabaster rooms
pouts, that bland kabuki mask
artfully arranging a
bouquet of colourful dooms
he sits and plucks
at brittle petals of treason
overlays his crazed angles
and mad theorems of hate
with slick-soft reason
he sits in rooms, heavy curtained
that keep out the light
and at his feet would have
God on a lead to turn will into bite
This poem has not been translated into any other language yet.
I would like to translate this poem