I see the death in the eyes of the children The thousand yards stare in the women In the empty markets And defeated shopkeepers I see the lost look in the eyes in the gaunt Trekkers with threadbare shirts And battered soles And dying souls This is a defeated place Voices are lost in the multitude of sounds Cries boomerang like the rabble of weak and old Empty echoes We receive the boot of the clones For cries And bullets for our concerns The democracy of the armed, Demarcated between dark-tinted land cruisers and ammoed goons Who speed past the dying nation We lay our necks for the armed fulas like goats And Our ailments treated by quacks We die unsung by the minute This is our fate in this dying nation
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