An Island in my Thought

The strength from the forest feeds the nation.
I sit and watch the day go by,
I hear the soil crying, yearning and waiting.
My crops are hungry, the plants are thirsty,
for strength betrays the spirit of the land
And my people are suffering.

Dark moments, still hours, each page in Life is in motion.
Each lines a curse to seek,
But Strength betrays the spirit of my growth,
Strength betrays my nation.

The pangs of pain dig deep;
They cut through the hearts of a struggling crowd
And pierce the hopes of many.
My barn is the home for the squeaking mice.
Silently, father weeps,
But his tears are not enough food for the land.
Many have come;
Many have gone upon the forests of this earth.
Yet the gods are blind to the curse in my spirit,
Where anguish has found a new home
And my hopes are imprisoned by the claws of poverty.

Thunder, Lightning
Then the raging downpour from the crying sky.
The bowl is bare and empty.
I hear the roars of the raging lion,
Pounding through forests, racing through hills.
What are my hopes for a new tomorrow?

Men fall, Men rise,
Men rise to fall once more,
And the nation conforms to this unpleasant rhythm of trauma
Where the stings from my father lives within the souls of many,
For troubled minds wonder through the prisons of this earth,
Their aimless spirits…
Wondering… Seeking… Finding.

Motion through the dark is a curse to the shepherd.
Time is a granted option to move,
But how can we move when our bellies are empty.
How can we sing when our memories are a collection
Of tragic thoughts,
Despair, Grief, Survival, Hunger, Confusion, Poverty
My people, when will it end?

We have sat upon this rock for too long
And the burden is a heavy one,
My worry is the children who may not live to see tomorrow.
The forest waits.
The land is hungry.
Where is the strength of my people?
Time splits across the plains of a phase…

The doom spell of a history
I yearn for a new hour,
For the sky is dark,
Feel the grief in my heart,
The pain in my thoughts,
Bare bowls set before the naked sun.
Hear the crack in my voice,
The fear in my song,

But the gods laugh,
Deaf to the tunes of a beggar child
And like a swaying tree through the mystic wind,
My son staggers through the torments of the seventh hill,
Imprisoned dreams bottled hopes.
The freedom of bondage is a blessing to the cursed,
Where many have risen and many shall rise to fall.