When will it end?
Plague blown on panic wind
To fall on man and dirt the same
Dust and droplet in fogging haze
To end perhaps
Perhaps in shame
As fools fly to evade
Ever comes the big charade
The show, the tent
The acts unfold
Bought and paid
With tickets sold
By men of means
To foster all their evil deeds
This poem has not been translated into any other language yet.
I would like to translate this poem