Atlas

Oh! The Greek gods,

Oh! The immortal souls,

I am your slave,

Carrying the world on my shoulders.

I find the sky smoked to black,

And the heavy downpour of torrential rains,

I see the names of bullets written on humanity.

And the blood like red wine flowing from the wounds,

Perhaps a insignia of victory for the warlords,

But when a son dies and mother weeps,

My eyes goes deep in to her heart,

My soul touches her soul,

I stand burdened and exhausted,

Why the mortals tear my world apart?

And mimic my eternal cry,

And say: " Look at Atlas the poor chap!"