5 stycznia 2012
~ No Cure~
They clap and clap till their hands grow tired
Sing with high tone till their voices worn out
For leaders of untruth words
They cast their votes with the wish that change will be
Once tasted the cushion chaise
The rhythm of the drum alter to a cymbal tone
The dance steps are followed together as one
By far all promises climb up the tree
Poor souls of this Island
Have been waiting for a perpetual new ray of sun light
All leaders voted as a motive for their voices
Turn out to betray and shatter their hearts
Cruel, hatred of unknown kindness
Trample on the conscience of devoted electors
Deliver false illusion
To a nation that is moaning for hope
To all are rip-off their fair rights
The wrong and the bad are at large
What fair can be drawn out of madness?
No cure for this island soul.
© 2011 by _Patricia Etienne
All rights reserved
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