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The village road
The milky road stretches a mile
Fresh tea for ducks and fishes is ready
Rolling wheels are the new hull.
Frogs with umbrellas and tadpoles in armour,
They risk for adventure.
Snails and crickets singing as they march,
Fireflies in queue for oil,
Leeches free loading as they hitch rides.
This road is a river
This pool was a dustbowl.
Heavy vessels transporting rocks
For the road from Istanbul to Tokyo.
Who cares for the lungs?
Who cares for the feet?
Who listens to the weeping trees?
Who listens to the raindrops?
This is the promised land
Where storms brew milk tea
Sun blows Sahara sands
Clouds flood the fields
And moon bends the streams.
Three inches of rain,
Thirty inches of heel,
Eight miles to plain trouser,
One foot at a time from village,
And dozens of craters.
My, oh my, here to run around,
There to shield from splashes.
There is enough dough for thousand bread
Fools run the house,
Riches destroy the way,
Few think, many speak,
Trees are clueless burden
Safety to foreign land is danger in my land
Feeling proud as the sons of soil
Looking mirror is the need.
This road is a curse,
This road is without clothes,
Naked and trampled by humanity,
None but the looters rejoice,
It is the stairway to Tartarus of greed,
Into the bottomless appetite for wealth,
Never satisfied, never sacrificed,
Not a highway to life,
The reign in death peak,
The root of daily sufferings.
This light breeze is a welcome,
This melts the stone,
It shakes the rice field,
It is a pleasing evening,
Drizzle, drizzle, fishy air
Does it have to stench aroma?
The village road,
The village rot.
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