Hope torn-
their hollow eyes speak,
as a single tear is wiped,
with aching fingers.
The desert plains,
broadcasting their highway-
among dead,
they moan through chaffed lips.
The rocks rained upon their parents,
they recall details,
how they watched; motionless bodies bleed.
Their breaths rattle-
in caved chests,
bread crumbs to fill their ribs.
They taste their last meal,
for each mile they step,
could never destroy the of thought-
of death.
.
.
.
.
This poem has not been translated into any other language yet.
I would like to translate this poem
Good use of metaphors and adjectives, right tone.....9