Like whirlwinds they wailed, with weight on their loin, they moaned softly,
They sighed as they wiped the sweat mixed with blood off their foreheads, shaking heads in empty sense of direction;
The plaintive voices of the masses heard from distant land, whose bellies are filled with rueful melodies piled into a song which they mumbled in somber note.
As hopes were ambushed, torn into shreds, by the vultures,
Men broken, women tethered, by the Persia's tyrant,
Determined famine maned the solitary coast,
The peasants' sweat smelled in puddles of blood,
A deluge of black blood rumbled in their heated veins,
Agony stationed on their foreheads,
Fury and storms all pocketed by nightmares as it tolls all around.
How will the jackals feel the grunts, fragrant miseries in the land, and cries in the market place when predating is the means of survival, to them? Vultures munch on the carcasses as they raid for more except they are pressed to the ground by fretfully disgruntled million of minions with blood of rebels too truculent to sit and watch emaciated babies grow too to the onerous subversion by robbers in office.
© Olaitan
