Your long-ranged missiles,
Perforate
The chest of my days,
The injured sunlight has lost
It's gold.
There is another war
Across the war,
And in between ensued
A brief pause,
That U.N.O insists upon
To call it peace;
In fact
It is a break to make
Fresh arrangements,
To launch another war.
Wars get nourishment
From our bodies,
The boundaries
Are the factories of wars;
I shall neither fight
For monarchy,
Nor for democracy,
Even the sacred armies
Have fallen
From the lashes of my eyes.
I shall only favour
For peac,I am ashamed of those flowers
And birds who are compelled
To become fodder
Of wars of Man:
The crown of creation.
This poem has not been translated into any other language yet.
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