Have no space and no worth.
Shorn of grace, torn off mirth.
Lost we hands, left and right.
Yearn we just a ray of light.
Left we back, home and hearth.
Outstretched hands, girdle earth.
Whence to go in larger interest?
Home; how come, has been infest?
Hearts and minds reduced to crust.
We’ll be settled as booted dust.
Left behind, few things we stashed.
Brutally our life and soul rehashed.
At times termed, displaced ones.
Painfully suffer the nomadic puns.
Pastures once that sprouted charms.
Scarred and pitted now cordite harms.
Goats the cows and our yeasts.
Horses we rode and burden beasts.
Ruined and caved in idle wells.
Ghostly ruined our blooming dells.
Swirling squalls; banshee screams.
Scatter to dust our nascent dreams.
Have no place to pitch or rest.
Our sanity’s now been put to test.
Where the water? Where the corns?
Where the pots? My golden morns?
Strewn shards devoid of scope.
Niente nicene and ruined hope.
(Friday, June 19,2009)
This poem has not been translated into any other language yet.I would like to translate this poem