this dreary has-been
smears his creed on his left bicep
like a tattoo engraved in blood
drawn from a once-impassioned war
unaware
that when he flexes that muscle
its peace and love message is scattered
to snips of radical gibberish
revealing that his intolerance
might be better served
facing his own closet mirror
engulfed by moth-ridden doves
their feathers fallen to a heap
at his battle-booted feet
This poem has not been translated into any other language yet.
I would like to translate this poem