The sand that is falling on down the glass, Is tainted, so riddled with grime. In two thousand years the journal may ask, For where in can the soul of man shine? No price of life is weighed in gold, for the blot of Cain is cast. There by we can see such Kingdoms do fall, by sword or by cannon blast. Hatred, Jealousy, Racial unrest, oil that gives life to the flame. To stamp on the soul of tolerance and self, all scars that give humanity its shame. For the people still call for Barabbas, he's clearly the preferred of the two. For what have we need of a Brotherly creed, a world hand in hand with compassion, and to live life where an Olive Branch grew.
This poem has not been translated into any other language yet.I would like to translate this poem