The last hut beyond the village has a candle burning 
And the destitute sleeps outside on a straw mat singing
Of the moon and its grand silvery door to paradise. 
On the wet grass I recall the floods of a million drowning
With dead children and nursing women I knitted my mind. 
The sun came with the beheading of the unfaithful 
And the faithful melted without memories of their faiths. 
In the dark sleepless night of blind candles  
The destitute leads a song of candles of our endless destitution.