It's new November and the sun is hot
unlike November bonfires in the days of yore.
When young we burned Guy Fawkes, but here the plot
of fertile soil God's wisdom was conserving for
next spring. Then daffodils are autumn dreams,
peach blossoms shriveled, grasses parched and barely grown,
and grandchildren search for some rushing stream
to lubricate their voice and flesh upon the bone.
I fear for living beings, fear for us
fiddling so carelessly while Rome about us burns;
no Vatican to lay the law or fuss
that God created man to reap just what he earns
and not a jot more, reaching to the stars,
where maybe once some greedy creatures ploughed their fields
and grabbing more, invented guns and czars
demanding more than what their good earth yearly yields.
I fear we see this hot November how
our greed has called the god of Balance out to cause
our springtime punishment, his barren vow
of summer plenty casting us to famine's hellish jaws.
This poem has not been translated into any other language yet.
I would like to translate this poem