Men don't dump anything on a platter
For you
If breath from them come
We will die alive
Waiting for air hoarded in their sacs
And if men don't die
We would die by those with means
We will chop their wood
Count their money
And sleep on our stomachs
Unable to stand like empty sacks
And the reason why we live
At all is for man to die
Poor or rich.
This poem has not been translated into any other language yet.
I would like to translate this poem