Black as the dark skins of starving children and women,
Exhausted from the birth of refugees and civilized wars;
Funded to lute and plunder the ebony star into cold darkness.
Poisoning the credulous genius with golden cups of power, the
While playing the treacherous flute of puppetry on ossified avarice
Why wouldn't they?
The natty pretty faces with solicitous smiles in portrait utopia.
They conceal woes in wows and simulate fart as perfume.
Blood in their trails the ink of diplomatic entourage.
Our greed melted in despotic crowns that manipulate us:
Snow crowns forged in the blood and sweat of black gold.
When would they change the wallpaper of the ten-year old
Skeleton with an ambitious rifle and innocent eyes on TV?
This poem has not been translated into any other language yet.
I would like to translate this poem