The Battle Of Battles
One of the greatest threats known to man, a threat which tries to push the root of a man out of the soil, a threat which some calls "a state of the mind, "while others sees as a disease that pronounce it's self when infected.
For so long we have try to fight, for so long we have try to conquer, for so long we have been in intense battle with it but still the winner is yet to be determined
Poverty, some say it's a state of mind and others sees it as lack but no matter how hard we try to coat it with words, the mention of it name brings terror to the ear.
My warriors cry out for help, their shout is all about to be redeemed, their prayers are to be saved but still they go around looking for the enemy who rest in his doom
Take your net I say to them, get your cutlass and hoe I preach but their reply is like a tasteful aroma to the nose of that which seek their defeat. The beast has been awaken, seeking to quench it thirst and my warriors are ignorant about its threats, they sleep in comfort, walking with pride but they forget the enemy is just behind
I try to warn them but ignorance is more cheap to their ear
I gave them the nets and also the hoe the cutlass to work in other to make the enemy go but still their reply brought it close
The enemy has arrived, with all it weapons, striking and attacking my my warriors to the ground, they plead for mercy, there faces broadcast a message of regrets and pain "oh! I wish I listened to the voice of my captain" their face said but the clock has just reached its twelfth hour
Terror filled their heart and pain within their environment and their ignorance was a wish they wished they haven't wished for
It's not too late I said, I gave them the nets and hoes once again and their reply was a relief of sight
Days after days they fight hard. Night after night they had no rest. The enemy saw this and put more pressure but their commitment was just too sure.
Now happiness springs up to the sky the battle has been won, joy as thick as a rainy clouds filled their environment the enemy has been sent back to its own torment.
For so long we have try to fight, for so long we have try to conquer, for so long we have been in intense battle with it but still the winner is yet to be determined
Poverty, some say it's a state of mind and others sees it as lack but no matter how hard we try to coat it with words, the mention of it name brings terror to the ear.
My warriors cry out for help, their shout is all about to be redeemed, their prayers are to be saved but still they go around looking for the enemy who rest in his doom
Take your net I say to them, get your cutlass and hoe I preach but their reply is like a tasteful aroma to the nose of that which seek their defeat. The beast has been awaken, seeking to quench it thirst and my warriors are ignorant about its threats, they sleep in comfort, walking with pride but they forget the enemy is just behind
I try to warn them but ignorance is more cheap to their ear
I gave them the nets and also the hoe the cutlass to work in other to make the enemy go but still their reply brought it close
The enemy has arrived, with all it weapons, striking and attacking my my warriors to the ground, they plead for mercy, there faces broadcast a message of regrets and pain "oh! I wish I listened to the voice of my captain" their face said but the clock has just reached its twelfth hour
Terror filled their heart and pain within their environment and their ignorance was a wish they wished they haven't wished for
It's not too late I said, I gave them the nets and hoes once again and their reply was a relief of sight
Days after days they fight hard. Night after night they had no rest. The enemy saw this and put more pressure but their commitment was just too sure.
Now happiness springs up to the sky the battle has been won, joy as thick as a rainy clouds filled their environment the enemy has been sent back to its own torment.
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