Peasants are hard
They are built hard
By ancestral peasants
Who were once in love.
Kings throughout history have struggled with this haunting question:
What is a crowndom to do when there are too many peasants?
It's hard problem and that's why peasants are hard.
Most peasants get pounded into shape.
Some get lucky and make their escape.
Or they get drafted into the army,
Or they work everyday until they are useless.
Some peasants drown in cement
Poured into a wall by the government.
With wicked eyes the King can only see
Peasants as sawdust, not part of the tree.
There are billions of peasants, maybe more.
Not part of the plan and so very poor.
Should they be permitted to vote,
Or remain in squalor some place remote?
This poem has not been translated into any other language yet.
I would like to translate this poem