The dust of heroes clinging to my soles,
Might be all, there is, for my guts to show,
As I walk on grounds, once hallowed by holes,
Of bombs, blasting to Hell a soul or two;
The cause for which, these men have lived and died,
Still lingered, long after the gunfires ceased,
Yet seen by hearts, with eyes whose tears have dried,
Now living, with life badly torn and creased;
The dust of fools may soon cover the field,
To bury all heroics of the place,
And might, a crop of cowards it would yield,
But nary, will the glory they'll replace;
......For alas, victory was won with words,
......So much grimmer, than with parley of swords.
This poem has not been translated into any other language yet.
I would like to translate this poem