for my father
The King saw his chiefs stand like the deaf
(brave sepoys stirred blood in their veins,
yet weapons fell down dead on the battlefield)
and watched their conspiracy of silence stage the defeat.
His face was smeared with mud of defeat;
no way out of enduring bits of derivative shame.
Nothing would have occurred if he'd split hair in anger,
This poem has not been translated into any other language yet.I would like to translate this poem