Age of neo-archaic anarchy, it seems
Obscene virtues of anonymous outfits
Hungry with their appetite for schemes
And their eyes glaring at the prize of profit
Reality check required for heads of state
As they play chequers with our fate
Creating the procrastinating quake of bloodshed
Each life wasted, harrowing sound of lead
Bullets that beseeched and breached the hands of time
With a gaping hole left in traumatised minds
Now wandering the dark shadowy road
Seeking detachment from the blurry episodes
Encountered once upon a time in barren wastelands
Zealots irate must never reprimand
Solace of innate love, which we all understand
This poem has not been translated into any other language yet.
I would like to translate this poem