There’s enough sorrow in the air,
Signs that the end of life is near,
Being silent does not ease the pain,
Let’s rebel and protest about the cain.
The comfort our women get is in form of torment,
Happiness has been closed for the moment,
Calamity triumph over our city,
Can you hear the old saying of ‘it’s a pity!’
The grief has almost made us blind,
For the ashes on ground are of another kind,
Is there hope for the children,
About sixty of our lost brethren?
Their roots and branches wither and dry,
Our mothers lament about as they cry,
Who will play in their tent at home,
And answer our grandparents’ telephone?
Aboard what was thought was faster and secured,
Silly to read that they were all insured,
I wish the authorities had aborted that trip,
We would have been free from this sorrowful grip.
