when i tread on the soil
of where i was not but a child
here at home
infant die of hunger
the old and the young
live on the old path
that give not hope
but to the people of the last
when shall all we see
the way these days of tomorrow
wanes and pines like a lovebird
though we are rich
and our future pines amidst
of plenty but each day gone
i wonder at the shinning sun
and fondly ask
why are we so blessed
« return.