I sing a song of the ills that plague us
And the dreams we are forbidden to nurture.
With a mouth blistered in shame
And a tongue coated in blood—the sour blood of fallen brothers.
The pains of our old age awaken before their time
Solely of their own accord
Our limbs contract now in painful spasms
Robbing us of youthful spring
Hair turned gray at prime, falling off like the leaves of a parched tree.
Our misery is cast in stone.
At the other side of the gulf we stand.
Torn out daily from the midst of over-exalted gods.
For we can take part no longer in the stomping of the night
Nor can we sow wild oats at noon.
The flimsy prestige of our manhood
Stolen by the gods above us
As we grovel at their feet—like the dogs they say we are.
Chanting and singing their praises
As they gulp down the blood of their sons.