We call, pray to a desert for rain
Yet-not a drop falls to ease our pain
Apparently, normal that hunger-and-thirst
To cut you down like-a-lesion that's burst.
Apparently, normal, sleeping homeless and cold
Better if they brought back slavery; so we're sold.
I guess that's what a birth certificate is.
Reduce to a number, until we fall through their sieve
But not like gold, or anything they would miss
It's just that we've been chosen to enter an abyss.
This poem has not been translated into any other language yet.
I would like to translate this poem