A: Earth hear the rhythm of my pale voice and bliss my throat with oil.
B: What more anguish can bedevil man than hunger.
A: Not even a single nut nor a common rice to boil.
B: Here we are wallowing in the pit of where our necks continue to grow longer.
C: Are we made for this pungent poverty?
D: Maybe it's our fate to perish on the other side of life
C: Can life ever bring to our souls the rims of modesty?
D: I know it's surely the skies who says we are born to strife.
E: With our scars, marks and labour; our wage is vapour
F: Even our lords see us as rats with no right.
E: Body resisting slumber after a long day of belabour
F: Yet they extort every of our might.
G: Trouble thyself not we are born of slavery.
G: Our hope and ambitions lost from birth in that monastery.
Originally published at GiftedPens.com.
©Olajide Timilehin Abiodun, CEO, GiftedPens.com