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
