Death rides again,
Snow white death,
Burning the veins of the reckless,
Blowing up their brains.
The steed's name is greed.
It no longer thunders the earth
With its heavy hooves.
It has adapted to modern times
And now it surfs the net.
The scythe never gets tired.
The bone hands never stop.
Even worse, they go faster.
Graves are sold out.
American youth is a well grown field
Of green corn stalks
Right in the way
Of a bison stampede.
This poem has not been translated into any other language yet.
I would like to translate this poem