This arms this body bears
are not its own,
the handshakes are forged,
neither is this step style
born of this body
nor its pace
yet i bounce
and call this mine
this pride is stolen
from many a soft heart
that paid homage to the imposter,
i laugh and cry accordingly
dont be fooled
this trumping isn't purposeful
but instituted programmes
trained under keenfull eye
of a crooked society
long built,
still we build
it was early in the days
yes
slowly but surely
i lost contact with the boy;
his touch was gentle
and his smiles were sincere
i left him out
while i dined with the society,
now my conscience creaks under the weight,
how i reminisce
in awe
of afternoons filled with laughter
how badly i wish to retrace my steps
but its all gone now
i left him alone
in torrenting cold years
till the unrelenting years disolved him
now
now he is no more
This poem has not been translated into any other language yet.
I would like to translate this poem