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Men of means and money have joined the beggar's fold
Their veins, like the lines on paper, on their body show,
Great and small are helpless, so are young and old,
A thousand beggars pounce together like a swarm of flies,
When a crumb, or a grain of wheat somewhere they descry.
Every head lies benumbed,
Horse and camel are sans strength,
Hunger cries on every tongue,
Thanks to the civil strife, soldiers sit content,
No fear of drunken brawls, nor of the vagrant young.
Unscrupulous are they all, the town's rich elite,
Every one doth understand how they speak and treat,
Moreover, these haughty rich are not easy to reach,
In their awful presence who can dare to speak?
Their conduct hurts the heart, biting is their speech. (en) |
