Imperialism Takes off my Head
In the morning, when I wake,
I feel the monster has been translated.
He meted, decomposed, and translated himself.
I cannot call him back,
he lies on the other side, lazy pig,
I cannot call him back.
You do not eat the grass anymore.
The meadow is burned by the welding machine.
You do not eat my mouth and sound,
you do not like my ears, little girl.
You cannot break through, into the sun,
but you feed on some interplanetary
continent of swamp shells.
Light the fires,
beautiful people of the world,
light the fires.
(Translated by Anselm Hollo, I think)