Dancing to a ring point,
Once he makes up like a sweated labourer,
Mouth wide opened with refuting refuge,
Against the podium he declares.
"Cry to God this moment, "
Race does not meet the mace,
"Make me the heart of my family, "
Brother conspires against sisters.
Haste just cut the paste,
The feud reads the field,
None wishes to sooth the other,
Until he quits the great race.
Again he decrees like a war master,
Facing frown lay the ceilings,
This once he satisfies my hatred,
"Anyone who opposes my prayer should die."
Who should be considered right?
If all die today, who will worship next?
Will my master not mock my loss?
Is madness not ushering our day?
This poem has not been translated into any other language yet.I would like to translate this poem