i turn to god and ask him silently
what right do you have to determine our lives?
the strings of fate, grip us tightly
we are bound for the path you have set for us
how much are you going to keep robbing the poor?
until they've spent every last of their expenditure
what choice do the poor men have?
they can only follow along reluctantly.
on and on, to the front they go
like ants they die out, quietly.