I can hear an army calling,
Foot-charge o’er bugler’s wails,
Battle horses thundering -
Infinite chariot driving mud.
Sweet dew drips across the tawny
Leaves, a fabric of Victoria’s
Corset flutters in the swinging
Tree, a dying mongrel in the gutter -
A hazy line of refugees.
This poem has not been translated into any other language yet.I would like to translate this poem