Gloomy lone minors
Clutching the bars of iron
Barricaded against the world
Peeping through the square holes
Casting a faint hope into nothingness
Longing for a touch of tender hands
Eyes have no more moist to weep
Throats are sore from tremor
Bodies are stiff from waiting
When will comfort placate you
When will nurture arrive?
Will the quest for fortune permit?
This same fortune will feed you
This same fortune will clothe you
The fortune that provides your need
Must be a crucial terrible thing