Here the soil is uneven
And wind blows in a curve.
Raise your voice a little bit, poet
And sing your songs in a higher pitch
Here streams are rusty
And rays fall in an unequal length
Milk of kindness here also flows
Like a river tears also shed
But they are conceived in mind
After looking the color of sorrow
Here all pain is not the same
All death s are not equally a loss
As if logic here has its own religion
And the flame of reason has its own race
Sing poet, sing a bit louder
And pitch up your tone
Here hate is bloomed like a flower
And like crops prejudices are grown.