T' resembled the calling of charisma
In the sound of a million winds;
That sound of rest assured convince
Sound of September dawn and august dusk
That empty of ability of power hungry tongues and chests
And the miserable resounding of promise after promise
Like old fallen leaves
Once green and hopeful
Now dead wasted and fallen
T's the zeal running every black land
The power of the few resounding state authority
Blowing empty air of word into every bare place
With the same swirl and whirl
For the lay man that stands and believes to be blown away;
For the loyal citizen that hopes and votes to be disapproved
Because his authority never after beholds
Not the authority to choose
And not the authority to live free
Never after has the state of charisma laid her anchors of change.
This poem has not been translated into any other language yet.
I would like to translate this poem