I find it half buried under the needle carpet,
listing, half-skew as it had fallen
smudged, loosing colour, with auburn stains
running into the dark brown
half chipped dirty with mud and half rotting
as if anarchy had reached its hand to it,
but from it were sprouting tiny stems in new birth
and roots were anchoring it steady
into its mother earth
and it was a token of the times
were against adversity, the weathering
we all were still growing, still existing:
against oppression still making a living
in a world gone mad, anchored on the Eternal One.
This poem has not been translated into any other language yet.
I would like to translate this poem