To a lowly and hunted
Soul, with a tinkered spirit
Even if the wavy-line’s rift
My skill hemmed in agility
Would not lose a grey hair to guilt
And vanity but my goal on sight

My journey shaky on shadowy
can’t toast a girl ‘cos of dowry
In day time or night hour, at the edge
Machine they thought I am, always on the prowess

To the savannah, that almost swallow my breathe
Will it allow me live for another day, unsullied?
...