Smokes rises from our yards
Yet our yawns stretches for miles
I have seen barns erected
But were brim-filled with naught
Yesterday we were the saints
Yelling the chorus of freedom
Today we are the rams and the butchers
I can feel the tempest of prime age
When swords shall slice our hearts
And retire with stainless blades
We shall toast
'Merry freedom comrades
We have no more blood for rituals'
This poem has not been translated into any other language yet.
I would like to translate this poem