The orange colour
Never came to bear
On the green oranges
They plucked them unripe
And messed up our compound
With dry twigs, green and brown leaves.
Their hair unkempt
They trodded on ten toes
With phlegm drooping
From their noses
Twosome types, mutants
Of some human genes.
Stop 'the oranges are yet to ripe'
Said my mother.
And they taunted back at her.
They played limitlessly like air
And everywhere they pass
They leave a wake of resentment
Twosome types, mutants
Of human genes.
This poem has not been translated into any other language yet.
I would like to translate this poem