Our minds are blank slates
War the artist
Its brush is man
With every stroke
Our minds are struck
Our minds are worn slates
Brotherhood the artist
With every shot
With every bomb
Our bond grows closer
Our minds are tainted slates
Death the artist
With every stroke
Our bodies' rot
But our minds are sent to rest
Our minds are painted slates
Life the artist
Its brush has no bristles
We wait for death to take the slate
But we are not afraid and have accepted our fate
This poem has not been translated into any other language yet.
I would like to translate this poem
A striking poem of innate human frailties. Thanks for sharing, Alexander.