The dark is gone.
Please come O' morn, we prayed.
Sounds of gongs and machetes,
Sung unpleasant echoes through the walls, we roared in wait.
Hope they shiver and stay away,
In the heart of the night.
Ruthless we might be, as we became our own gods.
Guarding our feeble and tender lords,
Who layed peaceful on their cradles,
While we watched and matched round fire muttering riddles under freezing drizzle.
Tired and dizzy, we were
But rather we fall than let "a million" come near,
Our huts and loves.

Our jar of flour and a jug of oil, we guard with our blood.
For who knows? Perhaps, they be the last we bake of before our death,

If this plague persists.