I pray each day for the sun not to go away,
And cry each night that thereon might die,
But every day it’s the same,
For the sun goes its way
and I am put to shame
when the night dangles from the sky.
Leashless darkness chases the day into a stupor,
And breached by fear, the mind bows to the overwhelming disaster,
As pockets of tears prowl his brows and hope soaks into the hovering clouds like vapour,
Thoughts of happiness cowardly follow their master.
Without any king, without any master, peasant feelings—guiled with a conscience—roam the land,
To and fro’ they go, taking a message of massacre wherever they so may,
and many times delivering an unpleasant blow to the neck or hand,
devoid of either king, master, or common-sense, they do as they may.
K