Oh God of olive and pigeon
If you can hear me,
Tell Columbus
His promised land
Has turned to a waste land
Where no olive tree
Will have fruit
Oh God of wind and rain
Tell the wind
Not to blow in this land
As it would be suffocated
Oh God of Mount Rushmore
The oracles are wailing
Tragedies are happening
Oh God of olive and pigeon
Have you told Columbus?
This poem has not been translated into any other language yet.
I would like to translate this poem