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©