you have shown me your gods,
by the glint of your teeth,
by the knives in your hands,
by the stink of your breath.
by your churches built,
over the unmarked graves
of your own children...
by the wealth you gather,
or that gathers you.
by the crumbs on your pillows,
and the roar of your success,
drowning out the tiny voices,
you grind beneath your feet...
you have shown me your gods,
they look a lot like you...
and leave me with the empty
sacred rage of the poor!
This poem has not been translated into any other language yet.
I would like to translate this poem