Poverty, wars, this is a letter for my calls
Diseases, cries, mourning all night;
In the mornings, still no drugs in the hospitals.
Poverty, diseases, people searching for what to believe
We are born not to be free
Born to be alive but still dead
Because we only write of the word freedom,
But graduate to violence, slavery.
Patience is slowly eating our lives towards death
Dementing the lives of the citizens.
These politicians once positioned as pillars
Demean democracy then demote the once praised builders
Corruption, negligence all over the states is what we wake up to taste.
What is grace when we face the perception of elegies out of savage scholars?
Is it to make us recite our ignorance?
But the more silent we are, the louder the silence gets
to create unfulfilled voices which later are decomposed.
Is it healthy to taste sweat of a sweating man?
Then why build foundations on a working man?