The Price Of Honest Bread Poem by Martins Akhoeneto

When gold wears stolen wings, the truth walks slow,
Yet honest seeds still wait their time to grow.
The books we bore now seem like empty stone,
While fraud builds thrones it never truly owns.

Young hands crown night and call its darkness day,
As virtue's quiet lamp is turned away.
The market bends where tainted fortunes reign,
And labour's faithful brow is priced with pain.

What worth has learning, forged through sleepless years,
If lies buy louder songs than hope or tears?
Yet borrowed suns must one day lose their flame;
No stolen crown can outlive honest name.

Though justice limps and truth seems left behind,
Time weighs all hearts—and leaves the pure refined.