Sun streaming through the curtain
Calling and beckoning the early lovers
We in our weakest and tired bones
Venture into the day
Knowing it bring the same thing
Hardwork for the whiteman
Working and working through the
Day, with no slight moment of rest
And as night came calling
We in our weak bones embrace it
To make pallet on the cold ground
And dream of freedom and joy
But cut short as day motion to us
And we In our sullen mind, work again
This poem has not been translated into any other language yet.
I would like to translate this poem
Beautifully constructed. Working every day. Please kindly check my poems HOPE and THE BEAUTY OF DEATH. Kingsley Egbukole.