The original colour of war was grey,
Forming the ultimate reality of dread.
For the march forwards built a complexion
From the dusty roads that wound around
The war-torn parts of symbolised fear.
One bond happened around the enemies,
One too many say the authorities of war.
So keep your dinners and suppers,
Food is of the alacrity, food pains you
As you speak, with definite signals of dread.
So care for the uprising, now that meanings
Arise from the dusty roads that wind around
Different, diverse streets from the other day;
That day was a tragedy of the spectacles.
This poem has not been translated into any other language yet.
I would like to translate this poem