On the isle of the evil waters
Even the darkest isle of the deadly ocean has I woke up to find me
Left to die, left to cry, left to burrow the soil for my shelter
Left to keep warm in the coldest tunnel of the Isle
I must be in the wrong world!
My attempts to try yields opportunity to cry
My want to be famous brings me chance to fail
Men have learnt to slay me when it’s time to pay me
Sting has become my reward when I sing
My golden lots they have exchanged for wood yet would not let my head lie low on my thorny pillows
I must be in the wrong world.
I have become a beast amidst the beauty
The atmosphere over my head is heated with sulphur
The pain of my sores have already become steady as my heart beat
My sorrowful countenance has become my external beauty
Yet your envy would still strike me down to the earth
Is this not a wrong world?
You were born with golden spoon
But I was made with a broken wooden spoon but I still love me that way
You feed from thy dining table and still hinder me from nourishing my poor body from the crumbs that are fall at thy feet
Let me alone still to enjoy my bitter wine in peace
Lay low thy envy and put down your hatred
Let them travel far away from me because myself have I not made
If I would, then to dwell on the throne would have the best option for my pierced soul.
Dear wrong world hit me with strokes
Even with thy rods that are made with thorns
Hit me hard but do not let my breath cease
Pierce me as good as your cruelty can drive thee but don’t let my soul depart from my sore body
Because one day I shall rise
One day the might and authority of the men of valor shall be given to the most feeble
The power and majesty shall rest upon the shoulder of the sore-filled poor soul