The false prophets have misled us
And we have crawled on our knees
To this modern miseries
Long away from the ancestral home

We are now lost in the wastelands of time
And our throats sourly scorch
From the long walk across the dirt of the desert
But the waters from the distant oceans
Bypasses in a pitiless hurry
And bidding us a mocking farewell

We have been over there already
Here we are now
Somewhere nowhere
In the middle of crisscrossing paths
And swaying miserably like drunken fools
Who know not the path they came from
Or the path they are headed

Yet among these plenty bizarre drum beats
We dirge to dying ourselves
Remembering the old voices that beckoned to us
To stay put back in our mighty thickest
The crickets own
Singing out their heart songs of noise
That beat annoyingly on our eardrums.

In that mighty wild,
Our natives own
Is our happy hunting ground.

There where the seasons die
To come alive again to freshen our bond
When the ancestral thunders strike in mystique rhythms
And the rituals of the masquerades are reborn
We dance barefooted in clouds of red dusts
Healing patterns unique to our tradition
Until the sun drops dead
Only then will the turbulence of our harvest songs
Bow to kiss nature’s gentility feet

And we retreat into the nights
Where we lay to rest the tempests of our plights
On the torn thatches of irritating itches
But we are pleased we rekindled the old fires
Spirits of the old fathers
Who battle on our behave night’s cruel creatures that creep
Seeking to feast in the baskets of our dreams whiles we sleep
The same old fathers
Who resurrect us anew in the next morning mysteries
When the sun hatches from the womb of our east.

This we dirge to our dying selves
Remembering
When the old voices beckoned to us
To stay put back in our mighty thickest
The crickets own

In that mighty wild,
Our natives own
Is our happy hunting ground.

But we are presently lost somewhere nowhere
In the middle of crisscrossing paths,
Miserably swaying like drunken fools.