The times are bleak
A bomb had without its own volition
Fallen onto a mosque
Man and materials are in ruins
Our only stream is shrinking
The taps are dry
Throats are parched
The darkness is thick
Only nocturnal flies are flying
Stomachs are void
And the thumbs are leprous
To be or not to be
Our dear seventh senate?
This poem has not been translated into any other language yet.
I would like to translate this poem