crumbs from the table have fallen so few so not to catch an eye
reckless and thinkless and felled to the knees to gather before before the broom
what is left amongst the spire that is as tall as the lowest cloud you could reckon the height of
hanging on a branch here every time(though never fell so far)
from which we lift these blistered hands only to curse
the families get nothing but porridge of maize and shacks at the end of farms
cash crops commissioned to pay of the debt and poisoned on the job
driving the mules to death in the wheat then leaving us follow with leather to eat
buried their sabers in the field and sharpen bayonets