What became of the,
black sheep,
that ba, ba,
gave you three bags,
master?
One bag,
so heavy,
with,
wool,
belonged to you.
The second bag,
had the shears,
was carried,
by,
the shearer.
The third bag,
you kept,
at,
the store
in town.
What became of the spider,
who,
with a needle,
pierced in,
each one's heart,
until a web threaded in blood
connected all of us,
young,
adult,
brown,
white,
yellow,
black
What became of the pain,
that poured out
in chants and unvoiced mourns
and amazingly still,
still fills solemn events.
This poem has not been translated into any other language yet.
I would like to translate this poem