Sunrise
A gang of hooligans
marched down to the north
Through the sandy field
Thier horses wore no hoofs
They fed from our beautiful plantations
And loaded thier sacks with seeds
They drank from our secret springs
And trampled on our gardens
They tampered with our women
And took away their dignity
They burnt our tongues with whips
And bath our homes with flames
But its a painful melancholy that
That the vulture’s hands are closed
And its smile is getting broader
As they walk through the northern reliefs,
Savoring the gentle breeze and sweet melody of the birds
Smoking and revamping their strength
All fingers on the trigger, plotting and boosting their speed
But their saddles are exasperated
As their horses wear no hoofs
They can’t go any further
Than to stand on our secret groove
And be swallowed by the wrath of the earth
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