Source!
that now small are the works of our hands,
Why now are our hearts filled with rage,
For this evil which we knew not in early age,
How is nature's favour now turned evil,
And for this, with every tick, I marvel.
That we might say, "nature gave us our requests"
And with bliss, exchanged smiles with the sky,
But now do we, in anguish, cry.
And to our peril, men change its nature,
Who has done this! Who has done this to our land!
She's stabbed behind: in front they shake her hand.
My young ones are crowing! In their hearts is a sore,
See my harvest! Poor! Not enough! Poor yield!
Who has done this! But, I tilled.
