It is a friendly thorn that dishes its nails in a caky body
Flaunting its waist in the direction misunderstood by physics
For the many times, it is a robe of honor to the men seated with rubber cane in the hands and chains tossed around their phalanges.

It is the man always seated at the gate eating hunger
And drinking thirst just to see his man buried in soiled hope
Oppression is the black gourd hung for one thousand years
It never dies- climbing from father to fathers as farther as it can.

A finger, pointing out from the midst of hot blaze
The nails scream for help, breaking every web clogging them
The chunk of flames creaming its navel
Making it to feel the care of a mother’s zeal
With stones reincarnating upon its pleasurable deeds

It enjoys its dark crystal fame hovering over its bladder
Celebrates like the forest woods sleeping on one another
Blindness was clear sight to it and praises itself as the crowded sweetness
Where fruits have their laws, it grows outstretched

Oppression needs a savior, it needs freedom from its wisdom
Like the colorful province proving itself more worthy
Its legendary pride must be slashed from it
And like a woman’s legs stretched out
Oppression needs freedom from its unborn depression

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