The Song Of Leader’s Death Poem by Gervase Garu

On the minacious slopes of Lebanon proudly outspread
The leader stands amidst winds lashing his ripped cap ahead
The wind is humming hymn and bending trees down with pressure
What I hated is now gone; there is nothing to treasure
Joyous burden, bitter travail of my life and sojourn
Greyhounds are flowing from the sky; they’ll remove the concern
What thou love so much, dear august man of admiration,
Take it and don’t be back from thy fiendish conflagration

Proud, with a single teardrop gleaming in the eye offhand
The leader is orphaning our precious Banan homeland
My land, which wouldn’t manage to be with him together,
Has already cried for help to the heavens for ever
Indeed, to leader, there’s no ire, no ire at all
Indeed, for him, I have not an ounce of mercy; it’s squall
Aphrodite, mean tormentor, even thou can come in
Because merely the hell’s wasteland is not enough for him

Free our hearts are thanksgiving to God, rid of pyic fear
Hollowly, there are no more little stranger calves in here
Ponytails of hornbeam leaves hanging on the verdant trees
Alien allies glad to see here new battalion to seize
Laurel wreaths at the temples, myrtle circles at the gown
Kind damsel of snow-white hands is making herself at home
But there, back, behind the junket, cheerful crowd that expands
There, something’s broken, ‘s fled, ‘s crepitating to the cool hands

Oh, Aphrodite, it is Ursula, close to our hearts
Angelic daughter’s singing in anguish and sorrow parts
She is telling them to take in leader’s children, strong crows
Otherwise, neither goodness nor rains shall bear fruits and glows
True, thou will say that beggars cannot be choosers and then
That if we cannot as we would, we must do as we can
Still, I firmly say today: If we can’t do as we would,
We don’t act; we do nothing

But escape to God’s sainthood