There is a strange craving for death,

but poverty is a slow accident,

you see, men,

shadows wrestling with lean alsatians

for a bone

The garbage is the next restaurant

for them,

and their mind wallowing in despair

in the mud of defeat,

they being has been made worthless,

just like the trash that they

feed on,

and with a bleak persistence,

hands that dive into worthlessness

to obtain something;

if there's no garbage, they'll

chew stones, that's for sure

Their hearts are wounded by restlessness

and how the nights can be

so unfriendly when they kill

their inner warmth with the flying cold

sent by the god of misfortune,

not even the scarf can

protect them

from this thermo-anarchy

The candle of mayhem

is lit and their soul darkens,

poverty, the wailing curse

that turns men to shadows

and women to emptiness

and children to worthlessness,

in the powerful silence

of grave worry.

                              By Kakraba Afful