The Pure Bread Is No More

The pure ancient city of bread is no more
Our acts seek shelter in a mourning moor
Underneath dew our light rays take cover
As the bloody pages for death pang hover
With dark echoes of a massive fire power
Thunder stands abreast the human tower
With the breast basket espoused to flood
To spoon-feed the babies with foul blood
To their rightful rats we are common rites
In their aerial flight we are feathery wings
In their greenery we showcase grassy rats
In their robust cultures we have no swings
Our pupils peep through our end weeping
Like the burst bladders of pregnant clouds
Our youthful rainbow bows down peeping
Sighing painfully in our desecrated crowds