Far off from the mountain tops
I glance at the land of the old
The birthplace of our existence
Sounding cymbals in my head.
Shading me with a red scarlet like the dead.
Flooding my being with sentiments.
As the wind of emptiness hovers on it.
Far away joy treks on
Marching without a mission
For we have sold our birthright
For that not worth a cowrie
I never wish to come down
Cos my own clothes themselves in thorns.
Claiming to be modest after pushing us into hell fire.
Upon who should my trust lay?
For the fountain of tears soaks mine happiness.
I lay with my eyes upon the cloud
For it seeks a change of movment.
What can we boast of?
Our ignorance, the weapon of our shame.
On the mountain my head is secure
For there I shall remain
The Haymaker © 2014