To be born, on this soil.
I made a pact with God
or maybe it was with the devil,
I don't know.
I only remember the deciding command,
of not keeping silent about what was kept silent for so long.
Later, it seems not to matter.
To whom, it seems not to feel
Perhaps, because saving the bread.
He believes himself to be the owner of the good life.
Poor him.
The boss's sepoy ear.
Whoever decree or palace commands
be the law.
To keep the loot safe,
from those who kill the nation with hunger.
Where I, dreaming, am dying.
Like someone dreaming is growing
Later, he doesn't seem to care.
To whom, he doesn't seem to feel.
Perhaps, he prefers to forget,
for the sake of his own existence.

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