The battle is common, it is bold,
It may be worse than sin in letters of gold;
My combat is harsh, surprising to the enemy,
But the dismay is stronger than flies or wasps
As I am in mud, and in anger, cross is my defence,
Like a heart that heaves for the weight is great.
Yet I am being bashed, smashed and crushed
As my fountain of blood comes from my body
With no sign ensuring victory, but for the family.
My family is now gone, once you grow and die,
Wondering why death has snatched the soul from the brave heart.
This poem has not been translated into any other language yet.
I would like to translate this poem