We spend and spend what we have left,
And waste on the things that never satisfy us.
The worry remains about tomorrow,
Where we’ll be walking,
Where we’ll be talking.
Because we are poor in spirit.
And lacking in wealth,
Our hearts are black with fury,
Eyes unable to shed another tear,
Everything we do seems pointless,
And each day we’re worried will be our last.
But we cannot stop wasting our talent,
Our time is quickly shortening.
There are no answers.
But we wait for there is nothing else better to do.
Who knows what will happen?