As the slumbering sun rises
Spreading forth luminosities,
Accompanied by chirping birds. These
mango trees stripped off their clothes
By Autumn breeze
I sit on this mountain top, alone
Gazing at the once green land
Grandpa told me tales about— tales of its fame,
Worthy children and of its heritage
This mountain top paints pictures in my head,
Of Grandma's hut
And festivals held before the coming of cars and suits
Our names are lost
Our prides are driven into the forest
We have tore away our skin
to wear suits and ties
This mountain top paints pictures in my head
Of our forgotten glories and lost heroes,
Of those days men were known by their heart
Not by the images of dead men— not by worthless diamonds
Amnesty©