To feed holy food they had taken the boy to a grave of a saint
In the dark of evening they had looted his beloved marbles.
To hear his crying there was grown lament in the chest of stars
Nobody has right to play ducks and drakes with boyhood.
There is color of butterfly in the face of the boy
They don't care but think all charisma of boy is idiocy.
One day the boy must fly in the sky
Those who had looted his marbles their face will be pale.
This poem has not been translated into any other language yet.
I would like to translate this poem