Chops over chops
Of hammer Hard
Injecting nails poisonous
Under the Son of God,
Yes, O Yes. That is a sin
But still going on and on and on
Their thrust for blood
Ours thrust for drops
They want him dead
We want grow crops
And the killing a God-gift for blossom and lawn
Is still going on and on and on
Not one not two but billion nails
Hurting hammers, Bursting bells
Hours and Hours of endless drill
And nothing well, but a “Bore-well”
We crush, kill and destroy
Safely ignore mother’s cry
We Hurt, damage and get our life
Our lips wet finally and a vampire’s sigh
At last
A Christ
Hanging on Cruse
Bleeding Helplessly
And Deep
Incurable, Violent wounds
On her crying face,
Can’t you see?
This poem has not been translated into any other language yet.
I would like to translate this poem
It is horrible to see this alarming picture nicely described in the poem.