There was a cane-ship making landfall
in the mist.
A cargo brimming,
greed and sanctions against Man.
Pitiful the haul of etched mileage
in the face of crew and worker,
torn and bleeding from wrists
on which acres of townsfolk scratched their names,
with disgust.
This poem has not been translated into any other language yet.
I would like to translate this poem