Country that suffers from the complex of motherhood

And wraps other nations in the barbed wire of your love,

Isn’t there even one among your sons

Who’d dare to say, leave them alone, mother!


Giant of a country, you who feed on helpless books

As if on little babies in the infant wards of libraries,

I would travel even a million years to cross you to the end,

Leaning on a knife, as if on a friend’s shoulder.


Independent virgin countries sleep peacefully,

Their capitals half-open mouths,

And from behind the horizon there leans over them

Your slant-eyed Chris with the salty honey of syphilis on his lips.

translated by the autor

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