Taxman
In the land that I was born
there is a man who takes from the sun,
he takes from the moon, from the earth's womb,
he takes from the sweat on your brow
and the bread from your mouth.
He calls himself the Taxman,
the collector of duties,
he hardly builds any roads
nor bring bread to your table,
but takes from your hunger,
and your thirst,
and your pain.
He taxes the laughter of children,
he taxes the weeping of mothers,
he taxes on buried,
and the newborn laced in swaddling clothes.
What has he given in return?
Silence, iron bars,
and the rattling sound of chains
under the weight of yokes unseen
that we are all forced to wear.
And so I ask, O Tax Collector,
under what rock have you hidden the sun?
Where has the harvest of our labors gone?
What have you done for the people
that toil in open fields
and sing songs of forgotten hope?
Post Comments
Poetrysoup is an environment of encouragement and growth so only provide specific positive comments that indicate what you appreciate about the poem. Negative comments will result your account being banned.
Please
Login
to post a comment
Turn off ads, get more exposure for your poetry, and get more features with a
Premium Membership.
