When will the gods intervene?
When infants are stained,
With the blood of the innocent?
When world join hands in plea?
The wicked He lets grow like palms,
The Book hoodwinks the poor.
How does that console you?
And for how long?
You want signs in your life time
As gods of this universe,
Cut the tall palms at the root;
Redistribute the earth by your scale;
Space allot for everyone to breathe.
Your silence steels the grabbers;
Your inaction infuses them.
This poem has not been translated into any other language yet.
I would like to translate this poem