Our eyes are in gritting embers
And pains,our torn soul has lasted
Sailing us through the gullet of penury.

Our wills are lost,
In the dusky woods among wolfish veins
Left the gunk of its decay soaring,
Hanging on the face of soil and air.

The failing dusts of our legs
Blew the clouds to cover,
Cowed abruptly in arraying miseries,
Tell heaven!
If it forgot the oldy bruised faces
Tell it!
If it forgot the pale rowdy eyes
Tell to it!
Our days are like nightmares
That the night take hid for,
We are sunk deeply in our thoughts
Left the drop of bitters tears
Send us those hues,
Calling the promise of peas in a pod,
If heaven could only speak.

Our raveneous scissors dies on the grazed garbage walking through the streets,
Our skeletal are sketch to art-crafted hungry souls
Sunk here,our dead hopes and wailing dreams.

Oh heaven!
Do not out-see my cry
And crystals of water-balled tears
Do not!
Do not deafen your open ears
And rustle thou grazing years.

The fate of a poor man
Is like the hope of a dead beetle,
Whereof had been better
If the mother had washed the rueful night to Ogun's platter
Would have saved an underserving misfortune.

Our lives are broken into ravelling potshards,
Our sweetening syrinx are now dirge of dooms,
That once scattered like a modelling gorse
Glimpsing that moon had traded in the gloomy darkness.

Our putrid are like dense marshlands,
Legs trudge upon,
If only we had grimed through boulevards and doors
Our carcass could have stenched their breaths.