The blood on my hands,
Are from the wounds of my brother, His sons I fought and took away his mothers,
Green and white runs through my vains,
yet am I not beautiful neither in my heart does peace reign,
I cleanse the land with the blood of my own,
I am stone hearted,
A black cruel soul,
My mother's advice,
I always reverse,
My father's chastity I flee from his side,
Neighbouring voices,
I shut aside,
My ears are not blind to my peoples cry,
A pleasure I take to watch them die, Their struggles are the memorandum of my change,
Their bustle are the pills that healed my head ache,
Indeed I am criticized,
Even hated by many,
It never ceased to amaze me,
How famous my name spread than any,
I am the fruit of the land,
O! they bore me,
I am the evil they nurtured,
Till I became free.
©marvellas
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