Your country did not become
Than what it was at every instant,
Made of you in millions, cooking
A single evening pot
Over a overfed stove, your country was
Made of you driving home on payday
And spending the cash on the gas
Burned to get back.
Intellectual statu quo is being
Unionized by the percent,
Whoever calls it, is 99% of a fool
Or an hypocrite depending on how far
They stand from the stage.
Your country was not a label ;
Has progress been a multiplication
Till the top of your skull
Was the only place left to list
Your country was a small door
Still opened in the North
If you were ready to share
Your neighbor’s share
As his neighbor’s spare.
And I think your country is a circle
Of connected conveyor belts,
And you are in the centre
And everyone else is
Falling in or out.
Crédit image : Berthold Brecht