The gun
an international weapon of choice
to stop the heart and voice
Loaded with bullets
that run out of the barrel
like a thousand men coming
to kill just one man
The bullet
a metallic death encasing
housing explosion set to deplore
with only one result
gore
Yet everyday we still make more
The pacifist
born to the earth to end suffering
Yet we go into one ear and out the other
We try to stop the voice of the crying mother
because they sent the corpse back
of my dying brother
The fascist
born to the earth to create havoc
Though they are never prepared to give a good explanation
they say it is for the good of the nation
What about the good of the world
Doesn't that count for anything
This poem has not been translated into any other language yet.
I would like to translate this poem