Folkloric Protest Song

Fresh is the early morning

that lit its loom at dawn

as the concrete reverbs

it also lurks,

an abrasive voice

from the bard can be heard

as he sings new slangs

that it’ll fool you with thrills.

The light was given birth at morning

interrupting in me the dream,

the voice I think it was a haze

that was left behind as a mysterious trace,

under my window someone has forgotten

a bag of chants and strong dissents.

On a firm path led into dusk

The Sun stroke its own agony

while the voices faded away

the day came to an end

but it lingered as the city slept

with the bard on its lap again