The whispers of damsels are like moonlight,
Subtle like ghosts of the winds and rain;
The river banks overflow from their tears,
Gleaming reluctance is in their breath.
One sees barges of the distant places,
On the canals where livings grow of white people,
Brilliant worlds amass wounds of the area.
Mimsy men with warring women reside in union,
The canals are a proud indentation
Of the society we call and speak so waywardly.
Tough arrows are shot at this antisocial upbringing,
One sees water wasted by the lochs of headdresses,
Seeing their follicles as wasted sewage of slurry.
One day, a new canal will be observed by the future-men.
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