Oh! you poor thing,
A pitiful fate befalls you,
Treading streets of agony,
Clouded by broken mirrors;
With Joy smashed to pieces
While hawking agony.
Hawking shadows
In scorching sun
Where abounds fires,
Of poor distorted limbs:
And a rain of bullets sticking
Her head out of the window.
This poem has not been translated into any other language yet.
I would like to translate this poem