Against a backdrop of a sorrow crop
Folks lose their nerves like the paper tigers
Folks portray throughout their lives in which a rope
Round their necks chops daylights from their fingers.
Frail like quails folks read Braille
Invent violent games shared through consoles
With neither purpose nor rhyme to derail
Nature's grand design trampled by boot soles.
Tears flow. Tears roll down cheeks
In genuine mourning, in jest, in solemn
Reminiscences of departed souls who weeks
Earlier folks derided and chided as ducks lame.
Hypocrisy hovers in fairies who like Pharisees
Wear on their sleeves trappings of affluence
A plethora of bling, a fleet of Lamborghinis overseas
Imported to ostentatiously display opulence.
This poem has not been translated into any other language yet.
I would like to translate this poem