Zuckerberg
Zuckerberg!
Sliabh siúcra.
An ordaíonn do shloinne dhuit
an tseirbhe a fholú orainn?
Ní searbh a bhí na déagóirí sin
sular tháinís-se, tú féin
is do chomlachtsa, Instagram,
a d’fhág suaite faoina gcolainn féin iad.
Mark, nach eol duit gur istigh ionainn atá an áilleacht lonnaithe?
Facebook, cad atá istigh ann? ’Bhfuil anam ann?
An eol dó conas breathnú ann féin?
Taispeáin anam Instagram dom, Mark.
Cad go díreach atá ann? Algartaim?
Táim ag smaoineamh ar na déagóirí sin, Mark,
agus ritheann línte de chuid Hanshan liom:
A pháistí, impím oraibh,
amach libh anois, tá an teach trí thine.
Zuckerberg
Zuckerberg!
Mountain of sugar.
Has your name determined
that you must forever sweeten the pill?
Those teenage girls were sweet enough
before you came along
before your company, Instagram,
made them feel insecure about their bodies.
Mark, don’t you know that beauty comes from within?
What’s inside Facebook? Has it got a soul?
Does it know how to look into itself?
Show me the soul of Instagram, Mark.
What does it consist of? Algorithms?
I’m thinking of those teenage girls, Mark,
and some lines come to me from Hanshan:
Children, I beseech you,
get out of the burning house now.
