Living where the sun shines is ace,

But the second era is bitter.

Mornings are never different;

You wake up hoping for better notes

But the dolor shadows you

You are maimed, merged with an end to the cosmos

All you think of is when the uncouth aeon will cease;

When the incessant cattiness will decay;

When all the sin, solecism, bane, tumor, will bar;

But its endless, the whirlwind is ever rude, never settles.

 

There is endless silence in the streets,

Withered meadows splash the byways,

The air lifts the skin dry, no film anymore;

Footsteps remain where you left them, never refined;

The ‘back-way’ drains the cadets; and some, gone till cows come home;

Relicts are everywhere, the field seizes the oomph of men

Who decided to stay; who set to age our busted land.

 

Every morning is grey, full of dismay, forlornness

And we all know the plague of the reign.

True, there are some, who love the crude days,

They die for it; they worship the oddities,

They are averse to veto it,

Though they see the edge, they’re still wild.

 

But it’s time to halt the game,

The force is croaking,

The banyan is slumping,

The leaves are dropping, day by day,

The hardy seat is sinking,

For we want to live where the sun shines,

So we will strive and work and pray

For our home land, should equally shine on all the citizens.

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