The bread factory Babel was damaged years ago.
Again, we tried to repair the oven in the frozen field;
We drank the fuel to tame the tempest of soot and yellow snow,
And the stomach’s black hole hungry with moldy hominy held.
“I am a tiger, in my trade! One baker says, “But new troubles arise…”
Coughing because the dust and soot, suddenly we started to pray…
“Black crows fall down around and call the death and blind my eyes”
“Hard times, of shadows gray: if we could feed people today,
“It would be through a spiritual power to win the old sin.”
“Could we bake good breads and loafs on the Kane’s line,”
“From where, the clouds of ash are flashing black in?”
Finally, they decided to cut coal in the new open mine.
The bakers became miners and the hell’s oven was sold:
When they fired the hell, yet burning it was too cold