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