The Tribe

Tumultuous turmoil through the tribe,
A speck of light in the grey, gloomy sky,
An airborne foreigner strengthens the vibe,
They know, the Greyer men they sigh!

Till the time of the great king,
No trouble no pain did ever spring,
Now the once-strong men they abide,
Long gone the chatter of their child's chides.

Sigh and lie, then cry and die,
The pattern of Life in sturdy moulds,
The harder they toil, the harder they try,
They'll still be Wisps of smoke above the clouds.