The Third world land:
Where pains in a plate of soup is pleasure
Where death is celebrated in robes of birth
Where vagabonds and vagrants find home
Where convicts adjudicates in courts
The third world voice;
A voice once proud and majestic,
A voice once vibrant, lively and witty
A sweet voice to many, a gem doubly blessed
Now laid to waste; repressed, coarse, white-washed
The third world people:
A People afraid of their civilian cloaked generals
Terrified of the very people they helped up
Relegated to scavenging to make ends meet
A people without morning, no day; just nights
The Third world leadership
The bane of the land; easily spotted, by their symbolisms;
Deeply lined pockets, conveyed in armoured trucks and led by sirens
Backed by peak caps, firearms, ambulances and bomb squared
Always half asleep and hypnotically awake
This poem has not been translated into any other language yet.
I would like to translate this poem