A moment in a time
when the timing string shall
move at random and with
a burning edge
On the hills shall build a thorn
and on the mountains a crest
of anguish and bleeding eyes
in the form of raining in a dried land
The cloud shall welcome weapons
on its armouring hands and with
a burning heart full of hatred and with
unmerciful soul and a revealing tongue.
Hence the trees of the earth
shall burn their succulents and
grow dried leaves for illuminating fire
And the noon shall borrow night
for better visibility as the moon
shall a burning sun with afflictions
then rats in their hidings shall be
all out with their short fingers long
to smash to the flaming fire
Oh! that day when all the timbers
shall blend their branches and fall to their
base and dry
and the wind shall be a deliverer of the tone of
the last day when not even the least being
shall boy-cut the ghastly visiting fire
My specie, what is left over has to get examined
and fixed right
lets go the right journey shall we? .
This poem has not been translated into any other language yet.
I would like to translate this poem