Your fits are ladders
To climb when the lards
Would want to rise,
Your labour laid found
Is the foundation no one
Built before our beaming eyes,
Yet unto the gaze of our
Sickling state call us all
To stand and watch the rhyme of
Pain, seeing our sacred workers
Cry tears, detained with hunger
Like prison inmates
Nigerian workers rise upon the Glide of the sun, thy hearty pose Of sacrifice, never a height to Forgo
Before the tongue of history
Your steps will set to bit the Path of glory won, unappeased
If the young generation of ours
Saw you work,
The unborn shall not curse 'Thee'
Like the heartless deity!
But the spirit of the fallen
heroes
Never shall deride your strong,
Unbreakable beacon laid on Hectares of our lithosphere,
Kind is the God that made Thee
,
Servants!
And gods will glorify 'thee',
Bless 'thee' even when you retire
From your ghostly office,
So, a humble worker, in life or Death, do most have a Rest.
This poem has not been translated into any other language yet.
I would like to translate this poem