From the sky are dropping bombs
even before delicate lips
can quiver to smile a little.

In a tiny children's brains
are intermittently bursting, tragic bombs

and up in the sky
are flying drab fragments of dreams
and on the sands of the deserts
are flowing barrels of blood.

Oil is turning into blood
and blood oil. 

Translated from the Nepali by Yuyutsu Sharma