Walking on the silent streets,
of a deserted town,
i feel the searing, hot,
iron rod, placed on,
my skin which is in the,
colour of a wet soil,
i feel my bruises,
reflecting the war at the purple sky,
as i wade my way,
into the hospital doors,
The anarchist withing me,
pulls the strings of a guitar,
swallowing loud speakers,
she blares out,
to the indifferent world,
minding its own business,
on the struggle of her life,
everyone's life, where wearing,
a skin which is,
in the colour of black tea,
is considered a 'disgrace',
as the world scatters around,
like flakes of snow,
on their chase to find,
the racist and pour,
wine over his ritual,
of roasting all the skins by fire.......
This poem has not been translated into any other language yet.
I would like to translate this poem
BEAUTIFUL WORDS ONE LOVE KEITH