They're struggling at the water hole,
It's really getting rough,
Jackals nipping at the heels
Of the rhinoceros.
The asses lie in the grass
Waiting for what's left,
But the water-line is dropping,
And the wild ones face the test.
The struggle spills into the street,
Into the houses of the weak,
Where it's getting stronger.
We're feeding as we bleat,
And it's not digesting well.
We're all holding baskets
In the long line-up to hell.
This poem has not been translated into any other language yet.
I would like to translate this poem