Every August,
staunch young armies of dynamic corn,
beautiful to weigh in the hand,
suffer massacres.
Green they begin, firm, with straggly brunette mops untamed by brush.
Every August,
these young soldiers
are ripped from the very stalkwombs of their mothers.
Like lemming babies facing unquestioned drowning,
they enter a boiling mortification,
their shrieks never reaching the deaf ears of their victimizers.
Stripped of their uniforms, shorn of their hair,
their very skeletal core stoically firm,
these tender, once-private souls are generally wrenched,
kernel by kernel,
by the rough white and red maws of major aggressors.
They are brave,
these murdered sweet young cornsoldiers.
Brave.
This poem has not been translated into any other language yet.
I would like to translate this poem