If a man does not know
How to wield a sword
His mouth must be sealed to asking what might have
Sent his father to the mongers of the soil
But our hands are strong
How to wield a sword
His mouth must be sealed to asking what might have
Sent his father to the mongers of the soil
But our hands are strong
So strong that if swords be wielded
Bend it must at the touch of it
But why are our hands stoned to carry a knife
When we are being cheated in courts
Perhaps, the man in us is so long but dead, dead! i say dead!
If the legs of that who wears the crown
Has not gone to where the ancestors reside
And has not climbed over the mountains that dwell
Each moment the large tree falls in the abode
Of the ancient ones,
No head can
Fit into the crown of beads
This is what they tell us
Those who say we must respect the heads that are grey
They say,
'We are still alive,
Why must you little insect climb the seat of command'
If they are what they say they are and what they say are not
Is what they say they are not,
If the truth they say is truly the truth they say is truly true
Then should they not know that
The elderly cannot be in the market square
While the head of a newly born
Becomes twisted
Then why will the heads of the little ones
Be dangling on the back of our motherland
And our elders will only look, and stare
Watching and laughing,
And most of troubles, seek ways to pass us by
So as to grab what our mother
In the skin of grasses and that of the cloth of the morning sky
Wants to feed us!
Has not gone to where the ancestors reside
And has not climbed over the mountains that dwell
Each moment the large tree falls in the abode
Of the ancient ones,
No head can
Fit into the crown of beads
This is what they tell us
Those who say we must respect the heads that are grey
They say,
'We are still alive,
Why must you little insect climb the seat of command'
If they are what they say they are and what they say are not
Is what they say they are not,
If the truth they say is truly the truth they say is truly true
Then should they not know that
The elderly cannot be in the market square
While the head of a newly born
Becomes twisted
Then why will the heads of the little ones
Be dangling on the back of our motherland
And our elders will only look, and stare
Watching and laughing,
And most of troubles, seek ways to pass us by
So as to grab what our mother
In the skin of grasses and that of the cloth of the morning sky
Wants to feed us!
Water will one day swallow water
Rivers bellying oceans
And one day the elders will become the backed
And the little ones will pass to straighten their twisted heads
But we first must wield the tool that we must wield
We must not keep quiet in the face of a tearing world.
Rivers bellying oceans
And one day the elders will become the backed
And the little ones will pass to straighten their twisted heads
But we first must wield the tool that we must wield
We must not keep quiet in the face of a tearing world.
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