So long have we been laboring
Too tight have we been stretched
Sharing the fate of Job
As we’re always denied the fruit of our labour
Now our faith is tearing apart
For our hope keeps on running from us
Our tattered garments are blowing away
And our pockets, so full of only our hands
As we struggle like servants in battle
Against armies of great kings
Our grieving lips never reach,
the deaf ears of our leaders
Who are concerned more on their bellies
Silence has become their tongue
And fear is their finest apparel
Always giving us phantom assurances
And their conceived promises birth disappointments
So who’ll speak for us, who’ll put things right?
That we take off our tattered garments
And seal our long torn pockets
Who will speak for us?
This poem has not been translated into any other language yet.
I would like to translate this poem