Saddled in thought
In my own little world
of our richly endowed terrain.
Luxuriant is its soil
Plenteous is its resource
Adorned with artistic festoon
All glory and all splendour
Are its standard mantra
But there comes greed of imperium
That begins the calvary era

Gazing emotionlessly
Into the gulf of immiseration
Where venality becomes the days' deed
And depravity the cross of the hoi-poloi
Our docility betrays our anxiety for a change
Which we have concealed
With our ardour for divinity
And passion for creativity
It is well, we tell our young ones.
But truly, when will it be?

With weak bones from the day's labour
Recreating on a mound of industrial sand
My little mind ponder in wonder
Of how the capitalists enjoy fortunes in profusion
Gallivanting their exotic cars, clothed in apparels, yet
They claim trade has been arduous in hand
They are like the pro-republic tyrants in power
whose motives are selfish, evil and domineering
While the impoverished toil for a trifling sum
The haut monde stockpile for posterity


© Papyrus