The Labourer’s Song

The hard work of the cotton-wearing labourer provides the idle rich with their silk robes.

The gem in the employer’s ring is made up of my sweat. The rubies in his horse’s reins are my child’s tears.

The Church is fat through sucking my blood like a leech. My arm’s strength forms the sinews of the state.

My morning tears make gardens of waste lands. My heart’s blood glistens in the tulip and the rose.

Come, time’s harp is tense with new melodies. Come; pour out strong wine that will melt the very glass.

Let us give a new order to the tavern and the taverner, and let us raze all ancient taverns to the ground.

Let us avenge the tulip’s blood on those who laid the garden waste. For rose and rosebud’s gatherings let us establish a new style.

How long shall we exist like moths that flit round candle flames? How long shall we exist forgetful of ourselves like this?