The prison cell

Категория: Поэзия
Fetters with fingers bare
From your small cell down tear,
Else will death you not spare,
Stalking here everywhere.
You in a sack they’ve bound,
To their vile jestings’ sound.
Up they’ve your body lined
To be to powder ground.
Grinds the mill people’s lives,
Bags of bones higher rise,
Its millstones iron-wise
Each day more terrorize.
No flour the miller grinds,
But blood that drips from wounds,
Greedy the bug imbibes -
Frenzied, vile despot blind.
Let the mill cease its roar!
Its black sails turn no more,
Let there no longer pour,
Dear to our land, the gore.
Unbind those slacks ol sacks!
This house of greed attack!
This mill of tortures wrack,
With angry bayonets hack!