The sun is setting at midday,
We can merely see the ray,
Nor perceive its hospitable warmth.
Infinite cold and darkness on the loom,
They are ready to consume the entire realm.
The granaries are vacant and weary,
No grain of wheat is standing,
The streams ceased flowing,
And the wells twirled to historic sites,
They all mirror the Sahara life.
Our livestock is portended with extinction,
And the children infirm and emaciated,
The wives ill and debilitated,
We aid to watch them sublime.
My candle threatened to douse,
I sprung to the sick house to rekindle it,
It was a light at stake.
Diversified pair of eyes welcomed my arrival,
Carrying hope of rekindling their candles.
My pair fayed the rest,
And formed a faction of the hope bearers,
Both waiting for the men of medicine to touch.
Instead they dashed to the street,
To demand for the upsurge of their pocket implant,
Leaving our souls on the lode of vanish.
The intelligence space is at stake.
The seekers have received the mantle,
And the providers relegated and overshadowed,
Revealing the seekers on the hue.
Lighting their path is a crime,
Sufficient to earn the lighter an execution.
The intellect section is in disarray,
And the quest for intellects in dismay,
The plight of their instructors neglected,
And compelled to detonate to extort.
The future of this country is flowing away.
Our sun is glowing,
And the stars gleaming deem,
We are exposed to an interminable dark,
That has engulfed the entire land,
And left us reprobated.
The sun and stars speak one language,
It's a language of votes,
The votes of transformation they assert.
Their lights do not illuminate our void granaries,
Neither do they glitter on our historic wells,
Or the plight of the medicine men.
None of the ignition is cast on the intelligence space,
But instead flashed on our pockets and wallets,
To see the votes of change in stillness.
It's actually dropping from pan to fire.