Parched, cracked and sun-beaten,
The ordeals of a tulip in the Sahara.
Plush, greenish and watered,
Unjust enrichment bestowed upon a spiky thorn
In a flower vase by the window.
Curled up, withering and weather-beaten,
The tulip cries.

Where beauty lies, malnourished,
There lies ruins, fertilized.
Fear not the land,
But the Lords of the land,
The tenders of thorns,
Tormentor of flowers,
Suckers of milk, honey and nectar,
Hoarders of manna and the Lord’s Sabbath day wine.

Candles are lit, black garments, worn.
Peace and ease, to this starving beauty
As death meet the buds
And it rests solemnly on the bosom of the Lord.

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The poem points an accusing finger at corrupt people occupying high positions. It condemns the embezzlement of public funds and the wastage of state resources on white elephant projects, while more important things are being neglected.