Oh! Brutal quakes
Of my eastern land
why quenched thou thirst
In my sand?
Drank those people’s
Bone, flesh, blood and skin
Does thy thirst
Is still within?
None you saw,
Rich or poor:
Pen and pencils:
Hands that cure:
Huts and bungalows
You blasted and blew
What good pleasure
Got thee mad?
Can you bring back
Smiles from sad
Now drink those bitter
Tasting tears
You can’t as they are
Burning sure
Search for kindness
In thy heart
Else wait for a seat
In the hell.
Count your days
Here and there
For science is waiting
Be aware.