That child with a broomstick,
Can never purify the temple.
The temple, full of mysteries.
This is the revelation!
The bunch of broom had swept the temple.
Like the busy ants,
One by one, they are oriented;
Sacrificing themselves on the altar of freedom,
For the woman, yoke of tax is laid upon.
For the child binds behind the hut.
They’ve pronounced the judgment of salvation for the woman and the child,
Where the mat of victory is laid,
For the man to sleep peacefully.
Every Agama lizard that falls from the rough wall, will always hail your handiwork.