Sometimes it seems that the solution to all problems
Lies only into the pipes of guns.
Sometimes my heart cries, saying
'Mao Tse Tung! Mao Tse Tung! '
Sometimes it seems, only the ammunition of cannons
And the long-range missile will establish peace on earth.

When I get out of such illusion, I get back myself.
Then addressing myself, I say,
'Alas! What's the poets' business with wars?
You are nothing but a poet, whose only business is
To create the tune of love into lute,
By which tune, men getting spell-bound
Will forget the war,
By which tune, all the killers of men getting frenzied
Will become men again.

How long will men cry?
How long will men fleep taking souls into their hands
Like the deer chased by the wolf?
How long will women and infants shout in fear
Watching the death-hill?

If men lose the chance to listen to poems,
Civilization will turn into stone.
If men lose the chance to listen to songs,
Earth will turn into hell.
If men fail to find out love,
They will turn into the killers of men.

No war any more;
Only love is needed on earth.
No war-monger any more;
Only innumerable poets are needed on earth.