Joy is a product of war, like the fed up world,
Like mania, danger and deceit, all the way too cold.
Joy has decided to show up after all,
In a guise too marked and cruel.
I wonder what the difference is?
Is danger a decision, or does joy come into it?
Joy is a product of course of war, as we feed it.
This poem has not been translated into any other language yet.
I would like to translate this poem