Out of reeking poverty cells
in a 3rd world suffering country
everything has its price
in lieu of draining meals
melting-drought stomach
and every second of the clock
is a tick for survival
Let all these pains
the purest justification
the measure for their means
in executing the bargaining ends
O their chop-chop bodies are drained
little by little from purity
in exchange of splintered hope
to meet the needs of the flesh
unknowing how they have enkindled
the risk for themselves
their body-life into an installment death
This poem has not been translated into any other language yet.
I would like to translate this poem