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 h...
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