Nostradamus - I Poem by Mann Bhatia

Only one hand of an angel intact if
of his love for himself,
could give me the concavity of his palm,
because I pour out my complaint.

Tu ferais mieux de continuer à courir si vous voulez survivre
Parce que chaque nuit je reve de te regarder mourir

The hand of man living
are too entangled in the wires today
and too full of life and plasma of life!
not the hand of man will ever cleanse
for the quiet weeping of his brother.

Maintenant, que la torture commence
Parce qu'avec votre sang est ces prophéties écrites

And therefore, only a coat of white angel
from distant roots nourished by God's decree and of immense
may seep serene, confessions of man.
Without past I dine in a bottom of deep revulsion.