The cannibalism was back.
You were eating yourself
alive.
The guts spilt,
would meet the dust,
in abode of earthworms.
They creep and burrow
and bury the organic themes.
Unpolluted, untouched.
The bowels undulate,
to the thumping rhythm,
of greedy feet. White eagles?
How far this digging
of gold mines will go?
Someone had swallowed the glitter.
Black birds are joining
the procession of
empty hearses.
This poem has not been translated into any other language yet.
I would like to translate this poem
Yes, hardly any hope for humanity. Things are really gross. A profound piece of writing.