There is no bank in this river;
Waters stretch out.
Tumultuous tides masqueraded by mellow lies.
They have painted over the exotic colours
With monochromatic hues.
The feast has become a rudimentary meal.
The skies have been mapped out
With cruel logic and rules.
Borders have been placed;
There is no more wandering.
The mystique has become a beggar
Living and a-stumblin’ for the Dollar.