Injuries to my wealth are beginning
To gather scars
Flies have lost hope in their source of food
And they are thinning out in droves
Their humming and drumming
Away in their wings
Our cord of friendship broken
And littered about my penury
I may be down
So they think
But my faith is my own armour against fate.
This poem has not been translated into any other language yet.
I would like to translate this poem