Distant lands of flower and grain,
Migrant hands full of blood and stain,
Hearts stuck on hope for luck,
Prides made to dodge the buck,
Minds set to ease, put in chains,
Beaten bodies use to the pain,
Hopeless lambs set to believe there is no mystery,
Doomed thoughts of our past tuned to illiteracy,
Disheartening paths of glory from a valedictory,
Men like Copernicus forced to die of starvation,
Foolish knaves trying for creation,
Tragedy strikes at only one time,
Or but two or three,
What ever number is needed for a fallacious poet to complete his rhyme,
To make you believe you are free,