Mark of Century
Look, there the poet goes
Mark of century all over his body
His life’s island is made of dust and sand,
Travels in all parts for freedom of human
Pen is his arms- equality is dream.
Men die due to hunger
Smell of gun powder comes through southern window
Men burn at gas chamber
Bullet is gathered in state storage.
Poet walks through road being dishearten
Thousand questions arise in his mind.
This poem has not been translated into any other language yet.
I would like to translate this poem