And she asked me,

How is it to be born poor?

Ere half my days in hunger and half in darkness; I suppose, you see me die?

 

And that one hatred, is a blind death 

Neither we die completely nor live fully

Yet it obliterates all the truth;

Love and faith, hope to hopelessness.

 

Eyes bounded with stars, blinds the light,

Face adorned with smile, masks the wound 

And I call it division; 

Division of life and living.

 

Too scared to run too tired to stand

Paralyzed by pain and abandoned in solitude

This is why I am still living,

The poor don't die of hunger but of malice.