Ambassadors of poverty

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.