When filled with bread
In their homestead
They send us mails
To invoke our wails
Wherein they assume
That our lot is doom
One doom report
Lures financial support
To self-appointed experts
Who dished out false alerts
Collecting aids on our behalf
And magnanimously give us half
Our senses are not too weak
To perceive their trick
But we’ll make things right
Rather than fight
We will search for that will
To correct our many an ill
We have a vision
To back our rebuilding mission
The past may be unpalatable
The present just endurable
But things will get better
In a future not too far
We refuse to be discouraged
By preying nations who have aged
And now spread mails of doom
To nations where they seek room
For their chauvinist ego
That just wont let go.
This poem has not been translated into any other language yet.
I would like to translate this poem