Feeling ashamed of myself
That didn't helped you in blood bath
Strong hands out of country lanes
Once struggled with mud of farms lands
Blood poured out from tiny tentacles of rose buds,
Who'd unsung martyrdom in one corner
No one remained alive Except for stones to cry alone
In empty village, Archival mystery surrounded an old tree
Dust of your feet's, now over my foreheads to bless
Nevertheless, to remember how you felt with canes on your back
To see your gloomy surmise, doomed every one's
Long unending spread, sprinkled with your mute blood
On young blooming flower, an old yellow beetle
Mud and sand soothed with leaves but lost their color
However, to keep you in their heart have imbibed your color of Red
Blood, yearning for Melancholy, echoed from the mountains
When for every single drops of your blood?
You yelled for independence
Why Haven't I spared my blood for you?
This poem has not been translated into any other language yet.
I would like to translate this poem