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?