The time to be born has come and gone
The present we know about her is our history
A manifest to her existence in the map and in the head.
This time is yet to unveil her bystanders.
Though in written, she is known to be free
But in words and actions she is shielded
By weed, grasshoppers, termites and tortoise.
Now, should we use fins and flippers
To propel ourselves through her bloody sea?
OR do we need any soothsayer to announce
The burns of a lustful shielded cabinet to us?
Dear Charcoals, time without number
We are blinded to accept a crown
We are forced to be subservient to a staff,
And we have sold our loyalty by queuing behind the meadow.
If surely the time will tell
Then we need to look up to our history
That is yet to appear before the land
Let hope for an upright serving servant soon.
And hope to behold a time to tell.