My roof is in flames
Too wild to make tame
By the bulk of a masculine frame
Of once acclaimed fame
Your only crime was nature's mischief
With her ways so stiff
Your virtue was steep as a cliff
But your cradle has sang no songs
Silent compounds
Without small strong fingers
To pick the meat clean
Off remnant bones
So your fate is sealed
By the hands of your oppressors
Advocates for your eviction
Your comrades in womanhood
Communing voices from the hearth
Making tent at the foot of these walls
Once deaf to the might of forgotten warriors
Now trembling under the weight
Of shrill imploring voices
Voices for the stocking of these lands
With fertile plains
And supple bosoms
To fill this roof
With the noise of it's harvest.
This poem has not been translated into any other language yet.
I would like to translate this poem