My unborn son, I drill down through the wires
that thread my battered brain and ask,
“What kind of world will drag you through the fires
of earthy human passion?”
A world whipped on by trolls whose eyes are screens,
who wear a democratic mask,
rewiring human hearts into machines
devoid of roots and nation.
Machines for which a self-inspired idea
is now a soundwave-bottling task,
for which the orthodox and toadying sneer
is now the height of fashion.
We stand now in an empty dawn.
That’s why, my son, you’ll stay unborn.
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