I saw men thrusting a bayonet and knife
through the enemy
as though life was meaningless
and killing with a rifle,
an armoured car’s gun
and war devoured
the enemy and the innocent
local population
and the madness and mystery
of having blood
on your hands
was like a omen
and a token
of more killing to come.
This poem has not been translated into any other language yet.
I would like to translate this poem