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By this riverside, where I reside
I dwell in a lonely house of joy
Made of wood, eaten by moths
On a land immersed in lethal flood
I dwell in this lonely house of joy
With familiar strangers and neophytes
Wise foolish men and certified loners
Nodding to muted songs of wild beasts
They have strong arms
Like herds of cattles ploughing fields a day
But their crown is pale and full of scars
From the achings of each day’s hot sun
Within their hood, oneness is a crime
Each head have to go solo and ensembled
For the pot bellies in cockroach dresses
Snoring and snorting to hell heavens
Only when a strange stranger knocks
On the door of the lonely house of joy
Their hope do remember a place, where
Sobs do blend into sniffs and sighs, easily
