O Soil

Soil,
Don't be fertile more,
Don't be a mother;
Child-traffickers, like mad dogs,
Are moving everywhere.

Don't conceive any green more,
Don't conceive any forest;
The blue-eyed woodcutters, like butchers,
Are sharpening their axes.

O Soil,
Rather become a desolate graveyard,
Rather become a melancholic desert.