Речи бунтовщика

that we are the roots of grass
to be torn out of the earth
as fragile as cracked glass
full of milk and honey and dirt

how can we escape this place
and turn into cosmic space
we are the roots of grass
but never are we afraid
and never will germinate

we are the roots of grass
planted in mother planet
we never see sky, and dust
never sits on rhizome,
we get it;

we aint got a single jiff
to: "linger, ...!"; we are beat pieces,
we buried and gloom is stiff,
we fragile as hearty whistles.