Poetry

Poetry: Our Ghetto

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Another’s greed drove us here

To this infertile land

Cut off from the the free sea

Without the gift of sand or sea-waves

Cut off from the the wealth of something green

Our set off was for greener pastures

In this arid waste,

Where the mind’s water dries,

And a baby cries

In vain

Amid those great heat in thirst

In that that dusty hut

Indeed summaries the need for change.

We the masters of the land seeks aid from that unknown master

For it is our labour

Which lifts the wealth

But our tedious outings yields no product

Our stomach roars each night

As if lions inhabit them

Our bodies looks figured

As if sculptured by the hand of hunger

Our labours

Lifts the wealth

Into our masters

But yet those receiving hands

Has no mercies upon us.

Wealth we see,

recedes from us each and every moment

On which their children grow

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