Would we survive tomorrow?
Crossing a line, to find the dried bones.
Are you upset? Bells will not toll.
I have worn many shields.
No birthday Can you give me a reward?
Milk was no more our weapon.
It is not possible to remain
human. Primitiveness rules. Rivers
of heart have started drying up.
This poem has not been translated into any other language yet.
I would like to translate this poem