Huge red sun rising over Harlem
The pain from Haiti is finally heard
Children have been dying here for years
Each infant death an earthquake of screams
Buried far below our Richter scale
It's time, world. We can stop all this.
We can build back better, we can be
A race with things to be proud of
Worthy of our beautiful red sun
That graces the slums of Kolkota
The bright white yachts of Greenwich
The penthouses of Manhattan
And the ruins of Port-au-Prince.
This poem has not been translated into any other language yet.
I would like to translate this poem