Riding through streets that promise uncertainty,
On a thunderbird that blares out thunders,
There reside my brethren, and
Live, as though, like refugees,
Seldom find their safe haven, and
Are with all certainty perilous.
The essence of hospitality,
Always spoken of, suffused head to toe, and
Then deftly vanished,
Into the aura of occupation,
Called by the foe; once guests,
Engendering a gust of resentment within the entertainer.
Sweet smelling aroma of saffron,
Fields of which, streched like carpets once,
Are now stained with innocent red, and
Now spread odour of viable corpses,
Scandalising the occupied, and
Also provoking the occupied.
This poem has not been translated into any other language yet.
I would like to translate this poem