My stomach chums
Like a cassava-grating machine
Pounding ... Scrapping ... Burning ...
Scrapping ... Pounding ... Burning ...
Burning... Scrapping ... Pounding ...
My head cracks
At the thought of this age
That choose to dodge good-
every good is postponed;
every evil preferred.
I see famished humans groaning aloud,
Screaming and screaming and screaming
Under the tightening noose of hardship
And millstones of hunger.
Yet, amidst this horror
Of throats stiffened by daily screams
And sunken eyes bleeding blood,
Even cooked foods are never served
But hidden away in the Masters'
Awaiting a pregnant tomorrow.
These embattled eyes I see
Deep in these skulls as dry as stockfish
May not five to witness tomorrow.