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