Slaves to our own destinies,
Enslaved by the pedigree of mankind.
The ill-cleansing of the 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 indefinite 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 indignant howls of the Marshall.

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 maskhandi.

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.