Just a few tarred road
ahead with many dusty ones,
dirt as hot as a corn cob
in our nostrils and our throats,
like a sour and bitter feeling at once
talking about all these injustices.
Dust in our eyes, turning white
our black spot, blinding clearly
even those with thick lenses;
dirt that stains our only white linen
and never goes out if even
applied, the most powerful bleach.
Injustices like dirt fills the air
and almost seen everywhere.
Our bosom friends they pose,
a just course pretend they to uphold,
but deceit and injustice
born and bred by those
who claim to uphold these.
Tears from our eyes they pour,
more than water from a free fall
and suddenly want to swim in whatever
which came out from the poor.
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