Blood on the land form puddle and sip
In the air circulate
And in the river float
Yet the warlord matches on
Unfeeling and uncaring
Of littered dead woods
Inconsequent maimed silent logs
The lower mortals
Must sacrificial lambs
To achieve the ignoble aim
Of a perverse warlord
Who at the worst
Flee to asylum
To a cohort nation.
(Monday 1st May,1997)
This poem has not been translated into any other language yet.
I would like to translate this poem