Twenty years I shouted afar
With strain, the voice that solo
Raven thought grapples me
in the arm of fear, he holds me
I beckon to my dearie, a fortune teller
Melancholy he looks... myopia of future
uncertainty is the fate he tells
The fate of the nation is shabby
My soul cry for the sorrow of dying people
Under the illusion flag that uproots our shield
Green and white with the illusion of leaders
Of the dominant fake brooms and dirty umbrella
Better reason with peace, our leaders of now
Tomorrow may come with your hearts in tie
Preserve today for us, for we to spare your 'morrow
Because mighty king will come from the sky to judge
This poem has not been translated into any other language yet.
I would like to translate this poem