Our day is cold blooded, ice-cold.
Our night is masked, hangman, impatient.
The locust invade here and the distance.
I never prayed for plagues
I am no locust by attachment or blessing.

You must come to my land, come
You must see my plains, see.
The marks are hyenas, locusts, vultures, 
I have lost the prize of memories
The golden beauties of my land. 

O my land, my once cherished queen
I can’t look up to your broken eyes 
I can’t look up your grave devastation
I can’t look up to your sons and daughters
Buried in the hills and rags of their shame. 

I see nothing of ourselves, nothing.
I see darkness of your light, darkness. 
I see the graveyard of your peace.
These plagues of locusts and rainmakers.

I am in your arms, your voice a lullaby 
Taking me to sleep, calling former bliss.  
Sadness reclines on chair, hair unbrushed
Burying your face in the chalice of tears.

I am on the bed of nails, kingfisher of misery. 
I am sleepwalking not finding the watchman. 
You must come to my land, come
See the rags, graves and locusts of my dying shores.