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