He was in a sorry state of despair
Everyday growing sorrier with disgust
Thinking of his low and filthy life
Soon he would steal than starve
Life felt like a statue whose parts were fit badly
And he deemed himself unworthy of sunlight
He had tried everything that he could
There was no more any art to it
The wrath of god had made him smaller than a vermin
And it forced him to wear that look each day
Malicious eyes accompanying him all over
With something hotter than loath
He walked aimless like a torn piece of paper
Blown through the vast deserts of Egypt
Resignation ringing loudly through his lips
Ignoring his wounded, closed appearance
All he could smell was imaginary food
He would risk everything that day
Even violence or violent death
The resolve ate him up like cholera
He ignored the lingering smear of red sunlight
Even the hordes of rats that sprawled his way
They were trivial in the grand scheme of things
Demanded voraciously in his flow of thoughts
Aston kamunde 