Listen, a bell tolls somewhere: It says of a high day Or, perhaps, a misfortune has arrived. Muffling up the lyre, It sounds far and wide now, Has the ringer gone out of his mind?             No, the ringer isnít sick, From the belfry, hears he How, with firm step, Fate persistently walks. íStead of thorps and townships, There are only ashes, Soldiersí boots trample on the standing crops.             There are no more forests Warmed the Globe in old days, Now the fire warms our Mother Earth! Thereíll be, when allís burned down, Nothing in a circle, And again from nothing weíll go forth.             Donít think itís a slumber, It goes on around us - The black smoke and smell of the decay. From above, the ringer Sees the picture clearly - íCause of horror, heís turned fully gray.            
© Akbar Muhammad. Translation, 2017
(akbarmuhammad.awardspace.co.uk)