An old poem in New light
Fisherman – Your boat is drifting,
Take my hand, bring it ashore.
Inalienable hardship at work,
Never identified by my hungry fork.
Militia - Your march is tiring,
Take my feet and my boots – make your trip.
Those icy thorns pricks you everywhere,
Ignorant lives here; Let me be there.
Courtesan – There is someone at the door,
Tonight let me go, you mend your sore.
Happiness sold in this market of deaths,
Dream abandoned nights for tasteless breads.
Mother – Don’t let your child grow,
Let it be at your breast.
Those vultures are flying low;
There is still a tomorrow
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