It is awful poor country, with little to offer but carrots and sand.
Come to think about it very few carrots only brush land and dust.
People cry freedom but no one listens. A tiny place in the corner
of nowhere, mud huts and stones... no oil to lift a jaded spirit.
Chew a sort of weed that lulls souls into stupor and brings
temporary peace. Yet they go on fighting tyranny despite being
ignored by us, we who must be selective in whom to defend.
They want to be free in a land where no roses bloom knowing
they have little to offer other than sand and stones and a longing
to be rid of tyranny. Help us they cry to the sky, but the world
is full of carrots, dry sticks. Love of one's country is an odd thing
it can be full of scorpions and deadly snakes but it is the land of
their fathers they have seen it bathed in a golden hue at sunset
and they remember its hidden beauty.
