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Parthak
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The Voices of the Weak
Children buried in the rocks
Had their fantasies stolen
Beaten by exhaustion and disdain
Their remains roll across the parched land
Birds carry seeds of solitude
And see men whispering their misery
Weak voices, mute with pain
Left to their own demise
Land burnt by live coal
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That makes the trees rotten
And the animals' blood on the ground sterile
With no song...
The acrid smell of death dances in the dust
Laughing at the mediocre and weak
There's no color, there's no open wound in the ground
Flies and worms on such dreadful moribund people
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