"A day's pay for a day's work
That's all what I say"
was once an Irelander's out cry
And a dream to fancy
Life in America,come what may
It's Sweet to forget the scent of death
Who can fathom the eery shadows
which grow longer and growl louder
when the hawk of death sweeps down?
there during the times of tyranny
the beginnings of nineteenth century
the quest of finding things and places
seldom an act so kind of human sacrifices
but a stern reality that drew lines parallel
commensurate of life and conclusive death
how the serpants of death pushed through
while few dying made others fearless
to kill and savour the life sucking the blood
the hounds push through labyrinths
khiber and bolan khashi and garo
All the travails to live and no mercy to kill
torch down villages behead natives,still
The elements are same,
Though the modus operndi differs
The occupants were fore runners
To own the late comers as slaves
And devouring life of them thrives
In letter and spirit we are still animals.
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