The people in all electorates, are called upon
By leaders to cast votes for them
Promises are made with words hot, hot
In the platforms by leaders
Having all scarecrows resurrected
Only my ballot card for voting, is lying
On the table as a dead body
Without any stirring.
Like a dead lizard,
The old empire made of words
With pumps and shows
Is buried and long forgotten
Don't you know?
It is deed and not word
Try not to dry up
My last dew drop
In my land.
Those who are killed
Those who are disappeared
Are on the cross, hanging
I conceal my soul with care
Not to be seen anywhere
Into the dead night,
The lions roar
The tigers hide
and all lines of my life wriggle.
I have become a ballot card again
With the curse of Satan
And lying into the waste paper basket
With no hope of resurrection.
This poem has not been translated into any other language yet.
I would like to translate this poem
Each line of this poem is the shared observation of all those who do not play politics ever. I am tempted to quote these lines- Promises are made with words hot, hot / In the platforms by leaders / Having all scarecrows resurrected / I have become a ballot card again / With the curse of Satan / And lying into the waste paper basket / With no hope of resurrection.