It seems as if in the war for peace,
I hold a sword redhanded.
With the bliss of glory for the tag of legend,
my illusions of fate pretended.
Forgiveness, kindness, heart collage,
I see them on the tip of blade,
with the noise of dying, silence of death,
slowly and slowly they fade.
Tribute of blood harvested land,
no one compete and face,
the end of war with lethal scar,
ending massacre race.
I fill my words with death, with swords,
lying so low red handed.
With the mist of glory for the tag of legend
my illusions of fate pretended.
This poem has not been translated into any other language yet.
I would like to translate this poem
A wonderfully penned editorial, Sandeep
thank u for your feedback sir..... please write if you find some mistakes.