The longest
run they had amidst northern loo of the May,
The wrongest
turn they had in the glitter of the eastern bay.
The passes
they never issued,
The masses
they never refused.
They are the
one who remains confused.
The
farmlands which are left behind,
The yellow grasses
which are yet to be grind,
The cereals
nowhere to be dined,
They are
the one living on kind.
