Now, what's this beast which made this world of whims?
Has torn our homes and left us in the cold?
Has mowed our grass, and maimed our very limbs?
Deprived us of the worms and perch to hold?
Has robbed our nests,
Detained our hopes or shoot us down as pests?
Is man its name, if beast it could have been?
Which fouled the air, the sea or time itself?
Then to wiping its race it now is keen,
Apocalypse it has so stored in shelf
Where roosts the bomb
Which might soon make the Earth a large scale tomb!
This poem has not been translated into any other language yet.
I would like to translate this poem