One by one all the buds in the garden
They tore it up
Were they jealous monsters?
No, they are many more
Too scary
They are the seeds of darkness.
The buds they tore
They could be someone roses
Someone smells of nightshade
It could have been effortless
Tugger, champa, dahlia
Even if it is dirty
Some buds used to light the garden.
And the soil would be happy
In the waves of the Indus Jhilam
Raktabija group breeds
Yet Mandakini's milk to burn in the river
They shed blood in the book.
The trees that survived
It also falls from their body
Just blood and blood.
Seeing this blood in the valley of death
The civilized world says:
O group of assassins
Even after so much hatred
Will you regain consciousness?