We sell pain in my city.
In every street, you will find me.
Not someone like me, you will find me.
Pain under the eyes.
Pain under every roof.
There is always a veil between you and the person you meet in my city.  
It’s a veil of pain which we all hide here.
We wear it like a mask, it covers us like a sin, and we all look guilty.
Yes, we sell pain in my city.
There is anger in the veins of young boys of my city. There is dejection in the old.
There is slavery among the women.
There is dominance in our men.
We sell pain in my city and we are the only ones who buy it.
We sell it in every household. We sell it on the streets. We throw it into our water.
We breathe the air along with it.
We still take refuge in the arms of those who have never intended to safeguard us.
We know their intentions but we lack other options. We fall for those who wouldn’t look back once they have travelled too far.
We keep coming back to the same houses that we could never make homes.
We do not love anyone here.
We do not know what love is.
We trade the sorrows of our yesterdays, hoping we could have a plate of food for today. Nobody cries here.
We call it a waste of time.
We call it unmanly.
Our hearts are torn out, worn out, bitter and dark yet the women of my city won’t complain even after being prey to my city’s men every night.
We think we don’t have time for a that sort of conversation.
Mothers feed their children with tears and jokes here. Crying can make you forget you’re hungry so can a laugh.
We’re all hoping it goes on for long.
We sell pain in my city.
Would you please borrow a little?