In the Meadow

In the shallows of dreadful meadows, the forgotten becomes the fergetful shadows, in pains we crush our little gains, the mill we grind, stirred with strokes behind. We let go our sorow, derive joy in d furrow, we gather to sing, as to aleviate our sting, the urge in us to complain, quenched by apathy in campaign, our venom rises, but depreciate as to our crises, and in the shallows of dreadful meadows, we become the forgetful shadows