Just as Ontario's skies are grey
I wake up to begin the day
As solid as the rocks they come
They always seem to turn to crumb
I can't see what I've become
I can't stand my father's son
So rich, so youthful
Yet we watch them rot
We plant the seeds
And watch them rot
I remember crimes
The Ghosts forgot
They've burnt the bridges
To the camps
So they can't remember
What milk they've spilled
Nay blood
My foolish father you have spilt blood
You wipe it up with your document
Your forgetful frowns I do lament
This poem has not been translated into any other language yet.
I would like to translate this poem