is it not true?
that our paths are plagued with darkened ether
for the days of bright brightness are folktales
buried in the odes of heroes long dead...
for in our days...there are no more heroes
only gluttons consumed by the meals of power...
in our sleeplessness of pinching hunger
mothers sing us lullabies in sorrowful lyrics
in bruised tones on the strings of plain pains...
their broken voices propitiate us rituals of pats and sleep
but at dawn...there lingers within the loins of our bowels
the anger that comes with a constant hunger...
fathers sit covered in the rivulets of confusion
their faces wrinkle from the chase for bread
to feed our pregnancy of kwashiorkor
and as they stare into our protruded wishes
they cry within the walls of their failed dreams
their dreams of fragrance for our stench of poverty.
today, the war breaks the strings of our dangling harmony
and mutilates our deflowered peace in the shells of doom
in fear we trail the lines of our plagued fates
like unguarded herds we scramble for safety
from the beasts of bloodsheds...
we are without food, without peace...
who shall teach us again the anthems of freedom?
that we may pitch on the zeniths of broken voices
and plead pleas for true rains of freed freedom
under these looping rays of the angry sun...
that our land may grow bountiful of greens
and the stem of harmony may bloom again petals of peace!