Great Nation

What sort of a nation

Is it, my poor dead man?

Oh, the mighty old land

Where we exist in songs.

Why did you die so early,

My dear muddy ones?

Their songs were too sweet

Their stories too distant.

What were you when alive,

The one killed in the forest?

Once a hunter-gatherer

With our tribal codes

Hunted without fun

For it was what we did.

And you, the ones

Who took his own life?

Caked in thick mud

Smelled of manure

Could read the sky

But knew not well

The world of speculation.

What sort of a nation

Have they made now?

A mighty known nation

Where children hate the sun

The moon is feared

Where people laugh

When they are told

A great coloured nation

Where poets are obedient

Their verses are stamped

That sort of a mighty nation

Where everyone is erudite

Yet can't tell the smell of mud

Were children are incubated

So they can see the high rise

That sort of a wealthy nation

Where the erudite millions

Sing the great nation songs

If possible, even in sleep.

In such a great nation

Its erudite millions think

The forests are too thick

The sun is too hot

The moon is just a glow

The stars are too distant

Its good many children

No longer laugh

Its good many people

No longer sleep

Its good famous poets

Talk more, write none.