A millionaire with money you can’t use,
Wives clothed with dress of golds,
Children who feed the puppy with plates of rice,
And neighbours who live on your bins.
You’ve got expensive house to shield your soul of stone,
But you are penniless to buy yourself a grave made of gold.
I will tell you what you know not;
Stomachs are grumbling,
Bodies are crumbling,
I can hear the moaning,
Clouds are gathering,
The tomb is waiting,
And the arm you refused to stretch forth is cursing,
For the race of man is suffering.
(Amori Lateefah Dream)