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