The silk worm
Crawling on the gazebo of
Mulberry leaves, spins
itself in the safety of cocoon.
Unaware, of its pending doom
And we with blood on our hands
And textile on our bodies;
Flaunt our rambunctious refinement
Acquired through centuries of massacre
This poem has not been translated into any other language yet.
I would like to translate this poem
I like this one, decades though rather than centuries, personally speaking! Of course, it could be also centuries for worn out immortal souls. Thanks, I really like the imagery, fan of metaphors.