Slaves to our own destinies,
Enslaved by the pedigree of mankind.
The ill-cleansing of floors lay the
Pivotal grungy grime under the feet of
Our people, polluting the air with
A taste of hopelessness.
Rows of helpless souls await indefinitely
Inevitability as the arrival of the next
Taxi seems uncertain. Certainty is given
To those who approach their cause with
Resilience whilst anticipation is bothered by
The howls of the marshal. Authority
Belongs to one as we are now all one who
Belong to none.
The sounds of struggle resonate through
The rigid shifting of the minuscule remainder
Of faith, soothed by the ethnic high tones of
We are one, who belong to none, in the trust
That I will once again stand in these rows,
To yet again see the sun.