I have asked for two handfuls of rice
at the end of the day – half a loaf of bread
I have asked for a prehistoric sheet-
to cover my body
In the night’s bed, I will take the last drop of sorrow as a reward
I did not ask for any more commotion,
I did not ask for any new excuse –
A brass plate or a bottle of liquor
Fame or any unspeakable gifts
In this circle of the great games
How much you can pour –
Pour the pride of the mind into the muscles of pride
Yet, what a whip of anger you have at my feet!
Pierce your tiny bullets
Like the radiant waves of the ocean
that strike the breath of the two-faced
Sniper or missile built in your luxurious obsession, strike my attic,
Come and see in human form-
Here is no lake of life, a dead body is a dry toilet
No food on the street, no unnecessary means of survival
Yet, why do you repeatedly strike the roots of my existence
Where the reproduction of generations stands up – the presence of existence is given – and you tremble in fear.
