Please be gentle when drinking my blood
I am not a mamoth I am not a whale
My body is not that giant and my blood
has not the width of the ocean nor the taste of the land
Please be gentle, when you are drinking my blood
Not that I have to be noble if I am to mold a soul
Not that I must forget all about myself if I am generous
Your machine of exploitation is pushed forward
Your engine is so aggressive as to
extract all of my fat and the last drop of sweetness
in my bones
What is perfection for? For an ego or
for the self-dedicated devotion?
Living a hundred years on this little globe
is nothing but a flashing of the clouds high above the eyes
A hundred years later, worms and bugs keep on with our fight
What is life for? For the prying-open of the skull
of the earth in order to infuse the brains of molten iron?
Or for the casting of the existing delight with the burner?
The branches of the big tree are implanted in the land
while the roots are outside weathering the rains and winds
You lunge you surpass you grind you suck
you dig dig dig and dig into
your deep pit which cannot be filled up
Your miners, your sons and daughters, they and we
are drainning our blood, but still fail to stop your greed
But I am not
I am not a mamoth I am not a whale
My body is not that giant and my blood
has not the width of the ocean nor the taste of the land
Please be gentle, when you are drinking my blood