The world got raw,
There is no beauty,
To see and to share,
For eyes of despair.
The sky got torn,
Now wasted and forlorn
With the mud of greed,
Capturing what's freed.
The water got dry,
From the tears, from the rye,
All lost in the woods,
Where the almighty broods.
And the man has got mad,
Happy when sad,
With roots that won't feel,
With the wounds which won't heal.
P.S. K
This poem has not been translated into any other language yet.
I would like to translate this poem