Once these hands made music; never more!
Oh, to have my bow and fiddle would be grand.
I have lost my home and all possessions
ever since the Famine gripped our land.
Now I place stone on stone upon this hill.
My fingers cracked and bloodied shifting shale.
To earn a crust of bread we labor daily
To build this road to nowhere they command.
At gunpoint, they have stripped our fields of grain;
exporting food from this our starving land.
They hate us for our stubborn superstition;
We poor wraiths who suffer like the dammed.
We labor without hope upon this hill.
Our sweat and blood expended- but for what?
A road to nowhere built straight and true.
a monument to those who God forgot.
This poem has not been translated into any other language yet.
I would like to translate this poem