I will not pay
For the air I breathe
Or for the sun lights
That rain through the day.
Surely,
Bottled water
Does not flow from springs
But from rivers of mislabeling.
Altered meats, I will not eat
Or feast from vineyards,
Laden with chemicals;
Or be compelled to swallow pills,
Filled with disclaimers.
Lands seem scant,
For little farmers
As if every inch of earth is taken.
Why then are so many stranded
When the strong man,
On the hill, has acres?
If I were clad in steel
Havens of the miscreants
Would be shaken;
So them feel the heat
Posterity will be baked in.
This poem has not been translated into any other language yet.
I would like to translate this poem