The road wound around
The base of a mighty hill;
A man roared with pain
As there were also the
Sounds of breaking glass,
Half dragging him with deals
That were harder than nature's
Head and trumpet.
They, the irate shrilled guards,
Saw into the believer's torture
Young at the centre.
Screaming and half slapping
Was heard with acting ears
Separable from the mainland
Of dangerous wastes.
It stopped.
The plans at the base of the hill
Transferred to offensive odours,
Defence stalely mattered
Hiding in the bushes of the night
Allowing life and death.
The screaming stopped
Ever since the help restarted.
This poem has not been translated into any other language yet.
I would like to translate this poem