Seated around the slaughtered timber,
decorated with leather and shearling,
the fist of the foreign man lay on board,
to float plant fibres with coloured fluid.
Sowing the seeds that lay nature naked,
with no wool nor silk around her waist,
while forced to roam within fenced walls
that keep sons as exiles to their fatherland.
Rust becomes Mother Earth’s attire,
metals made to kiss timbers as Brutus’ blade did,
breastfeeding pipes with coloured water,
which drains the earth with coppered sighs.
Yet the legion of metals marches across,
and the league of pipes makes merry,
while copper sighs rain chants of victory
where nature once dreamt.
At last, boring furrows where harvest lay,
for even rust and copper shall one day bow
to naked nature, and exiled sons, borne by carrot,
and the earth will be dressed with wool and silk,
while fenced walls are seized from feasting.
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