Black is what the prisons are,
The stagnant vortex of the hours
Swept into totality,
Creeping in the perjured heart,
Bitter in the vulgar rhyme,
Bitter on the walls;
Black is where the devils dance
With time within
The creviced wall.
Whose children are these? Who do these children belong to?
With no power to look over,
He look at them sleeping,
Exhaustion overwhelming hunger, barely
Protect with burlap from the cold
Cabin.... WHOSE CHILDREN ARE THESE? by Gearld Barrax.